Climbing on Clouds
by Kage
Summary: A Warden comes home with the Blight on his heels, an army in tow, and a love and a war he will not lose. His choices are not easy, but city elves are survivors—and he will do what he must to survive. Companion piece/sequel to The Beak of the Crow. Zevran/M!CE. Heavy romance & drama. M for a reason. Trigger warnings as necessary.
1. Chapter 1

_Note__: This is intended to be a sequel and something of a companion piece to _The Beak of the Crow _(ongoing, rated T)_. _The Warden is Daen Tabris, male city elf rogue, and the poisoning he refers to in this chapter is the subject of _Beak.

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CHAPTER 1

"We can...um, get a room when we reach Denerim," I mumble over my shoulder. Zevran has followed me into the forest with the usual thinly veiled excuses, and the tips of my ears burn with the knowledge that the others are probably exchanging knowing looks and a lot of irreverent comments right now. And, in Wynne's case, followed by a hefty sigh and a skyward glance. I have come to admire Wynne, but she is as bad as the alienage aunties sometimes.

His breath falls hot on my neck and an arm cast in bronze encircles my waist, hand resting on my belt. "With thick walls?" he purrs, chest tight against my back, and kisses my ear. I shiver—I _cannot_ help it—and try to wiggle away from him. This only makes him add another arm, wrists crossed, and I feel more than hear the jingle of metal as he works at my belt.

"Zev, no, come on! I'm serious! It's getting cold, and we need to find firewood!" I squeak. How embarrassing. Twenty-one years I have, and he makes those numerals switch places with a single breath. I am trying to stop him, truly, but he has started to nip at my ear instead and this never fails to make me want to collapse immediately.

"And we shall have wood, _amora_." His mouth smiles against my ear.

"You know that's not what I meant," I retort. I don't want to hurt him, but the loosening of my pants and sudden warmth _inside_ them means that he has won the fight with my belt. Things were going to get very awkward, very fast. So I elbow him in the gut.

"So cruel," he gasps, bent over in half with his hands on his knees. I fumble with my pants and glare at him. I know he is exaggerating. His abdomen is practically rock, curse him, and I doubt he felt my elbow as much as my elbow had felt his muscles. Meanwhile, my skinny alienage abs are almost as flat and smooth as Morrigan's, and defined by a visible rib cage rather than muscle. I have a little more muscle on me now than before I left home, but no matter how much I eat and fight, even Leliana has better definition. And then I got poisoned, and I woke up feeling and looking like I had just left the alienage yesterday. Life just isn't fair.

I rub my tingling elbow, retie my pants and buckle up my belt. How in Andraste's name does he always undo my laces so fast? I remember how openly he speaks of seducing marks, and I suppose I can only count myself lucky that he decided to go with a plain old ambush when we first met instead of something else. Traps and archers and mages and a crazy blond Crow, I can handle. Hands in my pants...clearly not so much.

He straightens, and I can tell he is thinking the same thing. How, I cannot say, but his face is more transparent to me now even if Alistair still claims we should not trust him. He still guards his thoughts behind a half smile and lidded amber eyes, but I know what he is hiding when he does those things.

"Look, we're really close to Denerim, but we aren't going to make it if we freeze to death first," I admonish. We are traveling with Arl Eamon's retinue, heading towards Denerim so that the Arl can call the Landsmeet. I do not entirely like or trust him—he is too much like the nobles in Denerim—but I respect that he is a good leader, which is more than I can say for most. There was a sudden snowfall, and many of the wagon wheels froze overnight. Arl Eamon is all smiles for his men, but I can tell that he is getting a little anxious about making it to Denerim ahead of the Blight. His face is fairly hidden behind that beard of his, but his eyes speak volumes. I thought that maybe setting up a lot of fires around the wagons would help melt the ice faster and volunteered to find some wood. He seemed grateful for the suggestion and sent some of his own men out too, although they conspicuously started out in a different direction. I suppose he hasn't had much opportunity to travel in the wintertime. I haven't, either, but fire is the only way to get out of the alienage after the gates freeze shut, which they often do in winter.

I have warned Zevran about Fereldans in general and tried to be subtle from the first day on the road with the Arl, but subtle is hard when your partner insists on massages and haircuts and very unsubtle attempts at steering you towards his tent. His men politely pretend not to see anything, but Arl Eamon has definitely noticed, and made sure I noticed him noticing. (Thank you, Zev.) I think he was trying to tell me that I was lucky he was willing to overlook Zev and me for now. Lucky, my foot. I know he needs a Warden who isn't Alistair, even if the Warden is an elf. Or, worse, an elf with a thing for men, especially one man in particular who is Antivan and a Crow to boot.

I do not know how I will explain Zevran to my father when he finds out, as he surely will. He thought my reluctance on my wedding day was because of nerves. Nesiara was beautiful and smart, and I probably could have been content enough with her. But beauty and smarts alone do nothing for me. I have known this since I was very young, and have kept it hidden from everyone, even Shianni and Soris. It's a good thing we're all practically related in the alienage; no one thought it was strange that I didn't go bug-eyed around girls. I had almost, with Morrigan...but she was interesting to me in ways I cannot explain. We were not honest with one another.

Anyway, perhaps Zev will tire of me before we even get home.

Maker. The very thought makes me want to slam my head against a tree a few times.

Zevran is looking at me with lazy eyes, and I look back at him, raising an eyebrow to query a silent _what?_ "The firewood is not going anywhere, _amora_," he drawls. I love the way he says that—_amora_—I do not know what it means, but it is a word he uses only for me. There are other words, _ayana _and something that sounds like "got-o," but _amora_ is the one he uses the most. "The world is frozen around us. Look at the trees, the way their slender arms glisten. They are saying to you, 'slow down, stop as we have, sit with us for a little while and admire our beauty. When the snow melts, you will never see us looking this magnificent again.'"

I do look at the trees, because I can't help but do what he says when he uses that voice. They are beautiful. I remember how awed I was by the Brecilian Forest when we first entered its heart proper, after we had met the Dalish camped on the outskirts. The whole place seemed magical, like I had just stepped into a completely different world, a city whose buildings were leaves and wood and dappled shade that struck you with patches of hot and cool with every step. When we met our first sylvan, I almost didn't want to hurt it, thinking that to do so would be sacrilegious or something—until Alistair told me that trees aren't supposed to move, and Morrigan added that the sylvans in particular were just trees possessed by demons. Abomination trees. _That_ was sacrilegious. At least they didn't explode.

The forest we are in now is technically part of the Brecilian, according to one of Arl Eamon's maps, but it is more like a tributary to a river. It is still magnificent. And thankfully werewolf-free. And no bears! Alistair says that they are all asleep right now, which seems strange, as it is still daytime. I am not objecting, though. It would have been very distracting to run into a bear now.

I am glad that I got to see the forest both in the spring of its revival and when it is quiet and painted and carved with frost and snow. The alienage in fresh snow looks like the frosted gingerbread castles Shianni and I used to stare at in the windows of a fancy bakery nobles like to go to, if those gingerbread castles were dropped a few times before the frosting. But the forest is a thing sculpted in the finest design, every tree defined down to its most delicate extremes by lines of white, like the hair-fine curls and whorls of handwriting I see on notes my father receives from the noble he works for. Walking through all of this—I could have never dreamed of it, even high up in the boughs of our _vhenedhal_ staring at the horizon. I can't wait to describe it to Shianni and Soris.

And maybe...

He turns and grins, and I almost say it. But I can't tell him that, can I? It's on the tip of my tongue, but Zev is elusive and a wanderer and I am always a little afraid that he will leave me if I get too serious. I hide it behind my fist and cough a few more times to continue the charade.

I shouldn't criticize him for the masks; I am almost as bad. He says he didn't grow up in an alienage and he isn't Fereldan, so he doesn't know what it is like when I try to explain it to him. But I am sure he does, if the Crow life is as bad as it sounds. Masks maintain that which one is scared to lose.

I thank Andraste when I hear a familiar _whuff_ in the distance. The warning sound barely gives us enough time to adjust our clothes and armor before Soris comes barreling out of a copse of saplings. He is clutching a piece of tree crosswise between his jaws. It's somewhere between a branch and a log and we both dance back when he almost drops it on our toes. He sits on his haunches and pants, grinning, his stubby tail clearing the ground behind him of snow with its wagging.

"Good boy," I say, scratching his giant head behind a crooked ear. I can hardly believe how scared I had been of him when he came running up to us after Ostagar those many months ago, barking like a maniac and launching himself straight into a darkspawn ambush Alistair and I somehow hadn't sensed. The only mabari I knew before then were the trained ones that belonged to nobles, and it never meant anything good if they were at their master's side in the alienage. They're swords with fur and teeth. Soris is so unlike them, all slobbery and smelling to high heaven, and nowhere near as pretty—he saw his fair share of action in the king's army long before I arrived. But I'm sure he could slaughter a whole pack of those mabari in a fight any day.

Zevran bends over and picks up the branch Soris has found. "Well, I believe our firewood problems are solved," he says, standing the piece upright like a staff. "A few more of these cut up and we shall have quite a good fire in no time, no?"

"Come on, Soris. Show us where you found those."

We follow him a few hundred feet into the forest, and he stands waiting for us beside a pile of dried deadwood sheltered from damp by the body of the tree they fell from. I have a sneaking suspicion that he could hear us from here. And no surprise attack on Zev's dignity? I shoot Soris a sharp look and he looks up at me with his mouth wide open and his tongue lolling everywhere, eyes huge and innocent. Oh, dear. He is always smarter than I give him credit for. I scratch him again and he covers my hand in drool. "Good boy."

I spare a quick apology to Mikhael and use Starfang to chop the deadwood into manageable chunks for us to carry back. Zevran creates a makeshift frame out of some other branches that we fit to Soris' back, and we load a good amount of the pieces of wood on top, our belts coming off yet again to lash the wood down. I redo my laces and tie them as tight as possible, and I still have to hold my pants up with one hand while Zevran seems to keep his on through sheer will alone. He watches me struggle while I gather firewood one-handed and grins.

"Not that I mind," he says, his arms already full of a neat stack of wood, "but perhaps we should purchase you some better fitting garments in Denerim."

"I just need to put some of that weight I lost back on," I grunt. "Who knew poison could take so much out of you?"

He turns away quickly at that, but I catch the stillness in his eyes and wish I could kick myself. Even Soris seems to cast a reproachful glance at me.

I have only just managed to balance my own armful of firewood against my pants so that they stay up. So I bump my forehead against his shoulder to catch his attention and stand on tiptoes as he turns to kiss him on the mouth. It is an impulse and I had meant it as an apology, so I fall back to my feet quickly and miss the feel of his mouth against mine immediately, however brief of a touch it had been. I can only hope that it was not the wrong thing to do. Zevran kisses everywhere except the lips, it seems.

When I look up at him, he is staring at me with a half smile and lazy lids, and for once I do not know what it means. Or I do not want to know. "Sorry," I say, both an explanation and an apology for the kiss.

He turns away. "We should return," he says. I follow, thinking of how stupid I am. Was. No, am. I can't help it. He is my first...anything, really. I just don't know what to do around him, and I hardly think all of those times with the nobles really count as experience.

Maker. Maybe Wynne was right about all of this, that old bat.

Zev drops back suddenly, rubbing the top of my head with the side of his cheek. "We must work on your technique when we find that room you spoke of,_ amora_," he murmurs. "I feel as though I have just received a peck from a newly hatched chick."

I laugh, embarrassment rising in my face. Two leapfrogs one to make me twelve years old again.

We crunch through the snow side by side, Soris trotting easily ahead.

I wish for this moment to last, too.

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_Antivan_: Ayana = a type of Antivan mythological fairy, invariably small and female with long blonde hair and black eyes, and thought to be a guardian of sorts. Known to aid kind-hearted travelers and to give gifts, especially gold and silver (inspired by the _anjana_ of Cantabrian myth)

_The current title is a placeholder until I can think of something better. I don't even get what it means. Seems like a pretty fast way to go splat._

_Until next time. -K_

_[Edited 2013.06.16]_


	2. Chapter 2

_Note__: **Trigger warning** for rape._

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CHAPTER 2

How could I have been so stupid?

I wake up, bleeding and sore, and have no idea where I am. For a fleeting moment I am afraid that my eyes have been damaged, and then realize that the dimness and the flickering is because there is no light where I am save for a few oily torches stuck in sconces out of my reach. I feel naked, and not because I am clad only in my smallclothes—my weapons are gone. The door in front of me is solid iron, as are the bars I am penned within. The ground is gritty, hard stone and voices scream and choke, begging for mercy somewhere not far from me.

I am alone.

I should have known better.

When the Queen's maid proposed disguising ourselves as guards in order to rescue the Queen from Arl Howe's clutches, I had agreed, thinking it was the best idea. She somehow even had a guard uniform that could fit me, although it was still a little long in the arms. I asked Zevran, Leliana, and Morrigan to accompany me. The more humans, the better, I thought, and anyway Zevran and Leliana were trained in stealth like me. It is always a good idea to have a mage with you, and we could keep Morrigan safe between the three of us if it came to it. I would have asked Alistair as well, but Erlina insisted that our group be as small as possible.

But the disguise was meaningless the minute I set foot inside the estate. I should have known that Arl Howe would not be using his own estate in Denerim. I didn't remember much of the palace my cousin Soris and I had torn through last year, but I knew this place. And it came back to me in a rush: A distant cousin's corpse, sneering humans, screams and blood—and Shianni. Shianni, my spitfire cousin, my best friend, lying on a cold stone floor in tears, her face swollen from blows, her throat necklaced with marks left by teeth and callous hands, and bruises all up her legs where the shreds of her bridesmaid's dress could cover no more. She saw Soris and me enter the room and cried from her heart that she wanted to go home. And everything went red.

Shianni and Soris had never been touched; I made sure of it. I was between the two in age, Soris only a few months older than me and Shianni younger by two years. My mother had told me once that she was training me to fight so that, one day, if it came to it, I could keep them safe. But I had to keep them safe sooner than I knew how to fight off humans three times my adolescent size. I intervened one day before a young lord could drag Soris off the way I knew he planned to, and as scared as I was at thirteen years old, I endured the heavy breaths and thick hands and thought that this was what my mother meant when she said I would keep my cousins safe. I quickly learned how to take my mind elsewhere while it happened, my thoughts always turning to my cousins' faces. Every tongue rammed down my throat meant one less in theirs; every bruise on my hips and wrists and neck meant none on them. They knew it was happening, and I knew that that hurt them. But they never knew I did it for them, because I also knew that that would hurt them even more, just as I had hurt when Mother took the strikes meant for me. I wanted them to stay happy and strong. We lived miserably, but no misery would touch them.

And it was gone, gone, all gone. Leaking from Shianni's eyes and draining from Soris's face. My wounds had never been.

So I killed Bann Vaughan and his cronies, used what Mother taught me to slit their throats like the pigs they were. I watched them bleed out at my feet. I put my wedding doublet on Shianni and Soris found her some pants to wear, and we took her and the other survivors home. And when the guards came, brandishing their weapons and demanding to know who was responsible, I stepped forward before Soris could say anything.

The Joining ritual says that you become a Warden the moment the chalice touches your hands. In my mind, I became one the moment I stepped foot outside of Denerim.

But it hadn't been enough.

I knew the very first guard we encountered. He had been in the Bann's employ for a few years, and was a regular in the alienage. Maybe he had been off duty that day a year ago, because I know I wouldn't have spared him if I had seen him then. He stared disinterested at all four of us before he suddenly seemed to focus on me, and somehow I knew with every fiber of my being that he recognized me beneath the helmet and the armor.

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. Every time he followed me behind Alarith's store, he would hold his sword to my throat, as if it wasn't enough that I had already promised I would not run away or fight back and never did. Him, I associated with shallow breaths and trying to stay as still as possible.

But I had a sword now, too, and his was still sheathed at his side. I realized too late, while his head rolled across the floor, that it was not possible for him to know who I was beneath all of that armor. But it meant nothing; our disguises were useless to us now.

Leliana was horrified. Morrigan seemed amused. Both said that I was not acting like myself. They did not know how wrong they were. This is the part of me that has roiled beneath the surface for the past year, restless with the knowledge of unfinished business, unsatisfied and thirsty.

And Zevran? He said nothing at first. He must have had an idea, even though I still have not told him much about the alienage. He just looked at me as I tore the helmet from my head and threw it at the man's corpse. He was all half smile and lazy eyes again, and I could not meet his gaze for very long. Then he suggested that we stash our disguises so that we would at least have a fighting chance with our own armor and weapons. I agreed.

We killed every last guard we came across as we worked our way to the Queen. It was too easy. I laughed every time the death belonged to a human I knew. This happened at least five times, and even Morrigan sent me a questioning look at the fifth.

The Queen was trapped behind an ensorcelled door that Morrigan could not break open. On the hunt for the mage responsible, we found ourselves in the dungeon, face-to-face with Arl Howe himself. He had a rat's face and knew I was one of the Grey Wardens, and seemed to care about nothing else—not about the dead bodies piled high in one of the rooms we passed by, or Zevran hovering behind me, or the plague in the alienage, or that the man he had aligned himself with for power's sake had left his king and an entire army to die at the hands of a darkspawn horde.

I killed him, too. An Arl is no different from any other human in the end. He said he deserved more. No, he didn't. Not from me.

We freed the Queen and made our way straight for the estate's front door. Leliana asked me if I wanted to pause a little, just to breathe, but I ignored her. My head buzzed and I felt unstoppable; no human could withstand my blade that day.

No human except for the small army Loghain sent to stop us, apparently. Why didn't I try to talk to them? At any other time, I would have—but not this time, not with everything behind a cloud of red and my gut singing for more. I recognized the woman at their head—Ser Cauthrien—she had been at Ostagar, too, by Loghain's side. She was just as responsible as her master. Just another human playing with lives like they are pawns on a chessboard.

It was a mistake to attack them. I should have realized it, with the room lined with archers and two mages at the door, and Ser Cauthrien charging right at us with her damnably huge sword. Morrigan got both of the mages before she was thrown off balance by a bolt straight to her shoulder. A guardsman rushed forward and cracked her head with the pommel of his sword. She collapsed as surely as if he had cut her strings. Leliana had tried to block the bolt before it hit Morrigan, but could not get there in time before two more pinned her to the wall. The same guard who took out Morrigan turned and slammed Leliana's slender body with his shield, and something popped and crunched as she stopped struggling and went still. And Zevran—I do not know what happened to him, because Ser Cauthrien was swinging at me and I had bolts bristling in my sides and one stuck straight through my left hand because I had been stupid enough to try and block it, and all I remembered then was turning my head and seeing a floor rushing too close, too fast.

Oh, Maker. What if they are dead? Is that why I am alone? I've failed them all. I shouldn't have led the mission. Denerim was an emotional trap waiting to explode in my face, with triggers around every corner and flashing on the point of every sword, and in every sneering eye and twisted lip. I knew it, but no one else did. They thought I would be the same Grey Warden they had come to know, and had no idea that inside Denerim's stone walls I was no longer their Warden—I was only Daen Tabris of the Denerim alienage, desperate and miserable elven trash through and through. No matter what becoming a Grey Warden has changed in me, it cannot change this.

Blessed Andraste, please, please, let them all be alive and under Wynne's watchful eye. Don't let any of them pay for my mistakes, least of all Zevran. Their only mistake was following a gutter rat with even less sense than his own dog.

I am not as alone as I thought I was. The cell beside me holds a human in its fist, his beard gnarled and gray. I do not know when he has last seen the light of day. His skin is as pale as a fish's belly beneath the light of the torches and his eyes say that he is on the verge of a mental breakdown. I do not want to know why he is here next to me, although I tell him why I am here when he asks. Let that be a warning to him.

"Where am I?" I finally ask.

"Fort Drakon," he replies.

I blink in confusion. Fort Drakon is a symbol of Denerim, a towering Tevinter structure that represents power and awe, not a torture chamber. But his answer is as good as any, and the location hardly matters in the short term, other than telling me which direction I would have to run in to find my way home again. And I would have to go home, back to the alienage where I belonged—no one would want me in the fight against the Archdemon now. Alistair could be the Grey Warden Ferelden needed, and be far better at it than I. He has changed since we met his sister, and I think it is the change I have hoped to see in a good man who might one day be king.

I force myself to look around in calmness. I am bruised and sore, but there are no arrows in me and I have been bandaged, if not healed entirely. It means that they intend to keep me disabled, but at least they also want me alive. It might also mean that my voice is meant to join the screams from somewhere beyond the cell door, but at least I am not dead yet. And I have no intention of waiting here, only to find myself on a torture rack in an hour.

There is a clink of bootheels shifting against the ground and the sound of armor joints rattling together. I peer through the bars of my cage and spot our guard—only one man, stifling a yawn. I do not question my luck. His face is bored and says that he has been given a duty only the lowest ranked peons receive: Guarding defenseless prisoners who are going nowhere any time soon. All he has to do is hold the keys and make sure we are not doing anything strange, such as trying to escape. I do not know why he tolerates a job such as this.

He sees that I am awake and eyes me, licking his lips nervously.

Ah, but I know that expression. I have seen it many times before, in faces that wandered through the alienage, staring like they are at a butcher's hunting for the perfect cut of meat for dinner. He licks his lips again and I know what I am going to do. I wish I did not have to do this, but it is what I know, and it is a good thing that Zev and the others are not here to see it. _He_ might understand, and would probably even appreciate it, knowing him, but it is already bad enough that they saw me at the Arl's estate. This, especially, is a part of me that I do not want any of them to know about.

I hang to the bars of the cage with one hand and rest my head on my raised forearm, and allow a smile to play deliberately across my lips. "Hello," I drawl. I am channeling Zevran and I have to spare a quick apology to him. "Bored?"

I do not know if he has been told who I am, but based on how quickly he approaches, it is not likely he has. Lucky again. I can tell that all he sees in the cell is a skinny, mostly naked, and very harmless elf. My captors probably did not expect me to come to so easily. I have my Grey Warden strength to thank for that, I suppose.

"A little," he says.

I tilt my head to one side. "Me, too," I say, and lower my voice to a purr. "And it's so chilly, too, when I'm all alone like this." Morrigan used that line on me once. I offered her a blanket and left it at that, too flustered to do anything else. She didn't like that very much.

Luckily, it works better on him than it did on me. He almost seems to expect it when he comes to me—he was probably told that sex with desperate prisoners is one of his little perks. It is too easy to get him to open the door and step inside the cell. My eyes note him shoving the keys behind his breastplate after he closes the door behind him, trapping him well within my reach. I look up at him through lowered eyelashes and ask him to take his armor off. He does. He does not take off his helmet, for some reason, but I can see that he is surprisingly young beneath it, and not much older than me.

His hands are on my arms and he turns me around and pushes me up against the bars of the cell. His breath is a wall of heat on my neck and has none of Zev's artful subtlety, and smells very strongly of tomatoes and onions and fish besides. Standard guard fare. The odor brings back buried memories of times spent on my knees in the dirt of the alienage. Where I belonged.

Somewhere in the fort, a voice screams for help. It is pitched high in desperation and barely intelligible, words bursting free with all of the force of steam shooting from a teakettle's pinched lip. It dies away into a strangled gurgle soon after it begins, so quickly that I wonder if it was only something I heard inside my head.

Perhaps it is the guard's youth that makes him so gentle compared to others. He could have grabbed my hair or made it harder for me to twist free in many ways, but he doesn't. I almost feel guilty when I slip behind him to lock my bicep across his throat, squeezing it until he stops struggling and goes limp. He will wake up parched and with a headache in a few hours, and naked in an empty cell, and will probably lose his job in the process. But a boy like him will find another in no time. And hopefully he will be smart enough not to take another guard position.

I release my fellow prisoner while I am at it, if only to spite whoever put me in the cell in the first place. He stands there looking down at me, bug-eyed, the door wide open before him. "Well, go on," I say, and hope that he has not been locked inside for so long that he is too scared to leave.

"I'm sorry you had to do that," he says.

I am taken aback and do not know what else to say. "You'd better get out of here."

He stumbles off in his smallclothes, shouting thanks over his shoulder, and I silently wish him luck. We both need it.

I still smell tomatoes and onions and fish on me and cannot wait to scrub it off. But for now, maybe it would add some realism to a guard disguise. So I inspect the unconscious guard's discarded armor and, in a cruel twist of irony, it is much too large. What I would give to have Erlina here now.

It seems luck is still with me in some way, however, as I find all of my armor and weapons inside of a crate by the door. They were probably going to move it somewhere else. I tear a strip of cloth from my undershirt before I put it on and use it to secure my dagger to my left hand, the puncture from the crossbow bolt in the palm too much for me to hold anything in it without help. In my right hand, I take up Starfang, and as my fingers close over the wrappings on its hilt, I feel whole again.

Except for the smell of tomatoes and onions and fish lingering in my hair. Maker. I wish guards would get fed something else once in a while.

There is nothing else for me to do except to stick to the shadows and search for a way out. I try to avoid alerting anyone, but this doesn't work for long. I run into a pair of mabari almost immediately and their barking brings the guards. I give up on stealth. There is some force at hand that seems to want to make sure I have a very difficult time getting out of Fort Drakon alive.

But I am fine with that. It is almost cathartic, the idea of fighting my way back home again. If I can survive this, then maybe I will have earned the right to give up being a Grey Warden.

I spin and behead a mabari and run up a flight of stairs to get some height on my attackers. One of the guards reaches me first and brings his sword straight down at my head—a common mistake, as I do not wear helmets. I am gone long before his blade touches me and by the time it nearly shatters against the stone staircase, I am on his back, shoving my dagger straight through the exposed part of his neck where his armor and his helmet do not meet. Guard armor always has openings at the joints. He staggers and starts to fall. I jump free and take my next attacker, parrying her first swing and taking her sword arm off at the elbow. She stares down at her stump and I axe Starfang's pommel sideways into her temple. She crumples immediately, her helmet dented.

The second mabari comes barreling out from the shadows and knocks me over, its giant paws on my shoulders and teeth snapping for my throat. I almost break my arm getting my dagger between its ribs, but it is just in time. The dog whimpers and jerks and I push it off of me. There are voices in the distance that do not belong to prisoners, shouting for reinforcements. I shoulder Starfang and set my jaw. Guards are always humans. Yes, this is fine indeed.

By the time I make it to the Fort's chapel, I am tiring and very tempted to go inside to lie down a little. A Grey Warden's stamina has its limits, it seems, and I am reaching them fast. I did not know how tiring it would be to fight alone. I feel blood dripping down my legs and gathering in my boots, and my right arm is wet with it as well. If Mikhael hadn't been so clever about Starfang's hilt and overall balance, I would have lost my grip on it at least twice.

I peer in through the open door. It is a typical chapel, lined with candles and benches, and complete with a sister kneeling before a statute of Andraste. The sister is bad news; I trust only one in all of Denerim, and this one is not she. I will not find rest here. I want to fall over in despair. I wonder if I will be able to lift my sword again after this.

I look up into Andraste's face before I turn, although I do not know why. I was raised Andrastian but never feel welcome inside a Chantry, even as a Grey Warden, the unease ingrained in me after years of getting chased away out of fear that I would steal something. My first close look at Andraste in a Chantry was in Lothering, and She seemed then, as She does now, to be at peace. One hand rests upon Her chest, over the heart She dedicated to the Maker, and the other rises with a flame balanced in the delicate palm, as if it is that very heart that She extends skyward for Him to take. The sight reminds me of our journey to find Andraste's Ashes, and my surprise at learning of Shartan in the Gauntlet there. His was the one riddle I did not answer correctly, the wrong answer spilling out of me in my excitement at seeing an elf. Alistair didn't let me live that one down.

Leliana told me a little about Shartan, later at camp. Was it out of love for the Maker that he followed Andraste, I wonder, or did the pain of his people win out in calling him to Her side? Hers was an undertaking only the insane or desperate would follow.

These are unkind thoughts. Shartan brought elves out of slavery under the Tevinter Imperium. No matter what his motivation, we all owed him that much. I cannot help but wonder how different my life would have been if his name had not been expunged from the Chant after the March on the Dales, if my family had just a little bit of hope that elves had once fought on equal ground beside humans—as they would soon do again, although without me among their ranks. I gaze at Andraste's tranquil face and ask for strength in finding my own freedom.

A familiar shout and a peal of laughter catch my attention and it is only a bruise on my neck that keeps me from spinning around any faster. What are Alistair and Morrigan doing here? And why have they not torn each other's throats out yet? I drag myself to the doorway and find them finishing off a squad of guards, Alistair resplendent in the heavy armor he prefers, Morrigan's hand aloft and ablaze like Andraste's. They see me before I can hide and the relief in their faces is palpable and undeserved.

"There you are!" Alistair exclaims, rushing forward. I want to collapse in relief at seeing his big grin, all thoughts of finding my way home forgotten. I had not trusted him when we first met, but we had been thrown together by fate and grown side by side in ways more lasting than even the evolutions between childhood friends. He is the brother I never had, the one I could count on to protect my back while I had his. We have our differences and I had a moment of mistrust after I found out he had decided it unimportant to tell me that he was a potential heir to the throne of Ferelden. But I forgave him in the end, and even felt a little hopeful about the future afterwards. With my brother on the throne, there was a chance elves would not be in the alienage for much longer. Maybe I would have a better life to go back to after all of this was over.

Unless he knew about how I nearly got our friends killed in the Arl's estate. Something inside me falls and I sway on my feet, the world spinning around me.

He puts his shoulder under my arm and lifts me before I can stop him. "I can walk," I manage to croak, but he ignores me.

"We need to get you to Wynne," he says. He turns and Morrigan is there, lifting a hand to my arm. It is still warm from the ball of flame she held in it only moments before, but soon it is warm with the calming light of her small amount of healing magic instead.

I look at her, her yellow eyes narrowed in concentration and thought, and my heart skips a beat. She is beautiful in ways I wish I could explain, her confidence and arrogance only increasing her wild allure in my eyes. But the love I have for her is very different from what I feel for Zevran, even if I had thought it was the same in its early stages.

"Are you okay?" I ask her, my voice embarrassingly creaky, like an old man's. I try to find a wound on her head, but there is none to see through her dark hair.

Her gaze flickers to me as she takes her hand away and moves on to my legs, deftly rearranging shreds of leather to find the cuts I bled from. "We are all well," she replies. "The Queen brought some of her guard back for us after Loghain's men departed with you, and the insufferable one took care of our wounds. 'Tis good that you are not too badly harmed."

"We were expecting to rescue you ourselves, not greet you at the door," Alistair explains.

"Is Zevran...and Leliana..."

"Leliana flits about Eamon's estate driving us all mad with her useless twittering, and your elf is recovering nicely," Morrigan informs me.

"Recovering nicely and nearly strangled me when we said he couldn't go with us. Maker, I do _not_ know what you see in him." Alistair shakes his head. "Is that good enough, Morrigan?"

"'Twill hold him for now."

The world is fading away. They are all right. My exhaustion has caught up to me and my eyes can barely stay open. Alistair is moving, and every step feels like I am being rocked to sleep.

"Ugh, I realize this is going to sound completely moronic coming from me, but you, my friend, need a bath. Like, really. You smell like...onions. And _fish_. And really bad tomatoes. I guess the cooks here don't know the proper way to stew them, huh?"

I can't bring myself to care about how I smell now, or where the smell came from. Alistair can make even the Deep Roads seem like a stroll through the woods. I wish Soris was here, too. I could use one of his slobbery kisses and his comfortingly huge bulk between my arms.

I am adrift, and set all thoughts aside for now.

* * *

_Daen is a bit religious. This may make some in the fandom feel uncomfortable, which I apologize for. I'm agnostic myself and I enjoy exploring the DA pantheon, but for this story I don't plan on raising the topic more than it is discussed here. _

_Until next time. -K_


	3. Chapter 3

_Note__: __**Trigger warning**__ for rape. In point of fact, this whole chapter is about triggering. My apologies._

* * *

CHAPTER 3

I am awake.

We are at the gates of Arl Eamon's estate and I make Alistair set me down right then and there. "Are you sure?" he asks, peering down at me as I stagger a little on my feet.

"Hah! Don't worry about me. I'm fine," I say, and take an exaggerated whiff of my forearm. "Whew. But you're right about the bath. Maker preserve me...with onions and fish. I smell as bad as Soris. You could find work at Fort Drakon as the head chef after this, Alistair. It'd be an improvement, trust me."

Morrigan studies me with glittering eyes, and the skin on my neck crawls uncomfortably. How much has she told the others? I am glad when Alistair interrupts with a laugh.

"You'll get your bath. But Eamon wanted to see you when we got you back, so you might want to poke your head in and show him it's still attached to your body first, just to let him know he's still got two Wardens instead of being stuck with just me." Alistair smiles. "He was a bit worried."

"I wonder why," I say dryly.

"Hey, you know where we'd be if it was just me. Pantsless. Think of all those soldiers and their poor cold legs."

Wynne, Leliana, and Soris wait for us in the foyer and Wynne practically pounces as soon as I am within reach. She grabs my left hand and pulls the rough bandage on it off so quickly that I cannot restrain the hiss of pain that escapes from my lips. My dagger clatters to the ground and the strip of undershirt follows. My palm grows warm with the heat of Wynne's healing spell, and flesh knits together before my eyes as the wound disappears entirely, leaving smooth skin behind.

"It was a good idea to tie your dagger to your hand, I suppose; it kept you from moving it around too much and doing yourself damage I cannot heal. Other than _stabbing_ things." She peers down at me, her brow furrowed and her wrinkles trembling. "What did you do, try to catch an arrow with your hand?"

"It was a bolt, but otherwise, yes." I shrugged and hold my newly healed hand out for Soris to lick. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"I know exactly what was happening 'at the time,' young man, and what happened before it. If you think—"

My heart falls and my blood drains away from my face with her every word. Morrigan, of all people, intervenes.

"'Tis not important, old fool," she snaps. I look up and she has her hand on her hip and her chin raised—classic Morrigan, smoldering with thinly veiled contempt. To her side Alistair gives Wynne a very hard look and Leliana laughs nervously, and I wonder exactly what has passed between my companions. "I have done my best to close the wounds on his arms and legs, but they require more skill than I have to heal completely. 'Twould be wise to heal them now, lest he collapse on his way to the Arl."

Wynne does not stop frowning. Soris whines and butts my side with his head, and I have to exert a lot of self-control to keep myself from wincing as he jars a large bruise. She looks at him and her gray eyes seem to soften ever so slightly, but they are hard as granite again when she looks back at me. "Roll up your sleeves and pants, then, Warden. We can't keep the Arl waiting."

Soon my limbs are as good as new, but I decide not to show her the ones on my torso. For some reason I do not want to take my shirt off or feel anything except a good layer of cloth and armor against my body. Wynne nods to indicate that she is satisfied with the work she has done, and steps aside so that Alistair can take me by the arm.

"Let's be off, then," he says. "The sooner you see Eamon, the sooner you can get your bath." I thank Wynne, smile at Leliana, and give Soris one last scratch, and then let Alistair lead me to the second floor where the Arl waits. This is the way it should be.

"Look at that," Arl Eamon greets us when Alistair and I enter the study. "Off to rescue Anora after breakfast, back from Fort Drakon just in time for supper. You're a busy fellow, aren't you?"

Alistair laughs and I manage a grimace of sorts. "You wanted to see me, Arl Eamon?"

"I did, and I am glad to see you in one piece. But if I may, Warden—perhaps I could interest you in a bath? The maids have been keeping the water hot in preparation for your return, and you are...very...fragrant." Eamon's bushy gray eyebrows rise.

Sweet Maker. Yes, I smell like fish. Would no one leave it be? "Ah, well. The torture at Fort Drakon extends to the cuisine, what can I say?" I smile innocently.

"Torture?" Arl Eamon's brow furrows as he tries to process this. He looks like a shaggy old dog trying to see me between overgrown bits of fur. "You mean to tell me that Howe was using Fort Drakon as his personal torture chamber?"

"Howe was. And _how_!" It is my turn to raise my brows, but Eamon is too preoccupied with expressing his distress at my news to appreciate it. I check Alistair and he is perfectly stone-faced. Not my best attempt at humor, apparently. "But as for 'personal torture chamber,' I believe that title belongs to the dungeons of the Arl of Denerim's estate."

"Yes, Riordan did say something along those lines." The Arl glances at the dark-haired Orlesian Warden standing in the corner of the room. Riordan inclines his head, both in acknowledgement and confirmation. I had almost forgotten that we had pulled him out of one of Howe's cells while rescuing the Queen. He seemed to be in a hurry to leave, and the words we exchanged have since slipped my mind.

Riordan has very still eyes, and the way he watches me makes me wonder whether he has something to tell me or if he is just another human with an elf fetish. Maker, I hope it is not the latter. Alistair makes the Order sound unassailable, like a brotherhood of gods. I do not want to have one of them eyeing my posterior every time I turn around.

"We all have much to speak of, Warden. But you look tired and hungry, and perhaps it is best if we have our discussion over a meal instead." The Arl smiles at last. "It would at least give you some time to freshen up."

"That sounds excellent, Arl Eamon." I do not know how to excuse myself, so I bow with a fist over my heart as I have seen Alistair do on a few occasions.

"There is no need for that, Warden. We are equals. Or, rather, it is I who should be bowing to you. A courtesy for one of the three in the room actually capable of ending this mess once and for all." I glance up at Eamon, confused, and he turns to Riordan again, his look inviting a comment. But the Orlesian still says nothing.

I decide I do not like him, fellow Warden or no. He is unsettling.

Eamon turns back to me and nods. "We will speak soon, Warden."

"Thank you, Arl." I turn and pat Alistair on the arm before I leave the room. The elven maid I vaguely remember glimpsing yesterday when we arrived is waiting for me outside, and she gestures for me to follow her down the hallway.

"You say he is from the alienage here in Denerim, Arl Eamon?" a deep voice laced with Orlesian asks as the door closes behind me. "He is very odd, for an elf."

I am tempted to charge back into the room to demand that Riordan apologize, but it would be rude of me and I force myself to keep walking. Still, I am glad when Alistair speaks up. "You aren't still sore about him calling you an old man, are you? He's a great Warden, and he's led us to victory more than once." I pad away with Alistair's voice dying in my ears. "I would follow him into battle any day."

Oh, Alistair. There will be no more following soon, brother. If only you knew.

In a few minutes, I am staring perplexed at an enormous tub of steaming water. The maid led me to a door at the end of the hallway and she shuts it behind us as soon as we step inside. I have learned her name along the way—she is called Nigella, and she was brought here from Redcliffe. The room we stand in is as large as my father's house, and is covered from floor to ceiling with something that looks and feels like squares of a blush-colored rock, except I have never seen rock come in that particular shade before. Golden carvings of fat flowers and fatter birds and fatter still naked children with wings line the upper portion of the walls along the ceilings. The entirety of one wall is taken up by a mirror, and there is a large window on the other. I can see the top of the _vhenedhal_ from here, and my chest twinges with the reminder of how near home is right now.

There are fanciful flower arrangements as tall as me in blue pots etched with gold, each pot the size of a chair and placed in all of the corners of the room except for one, which is covered by a sky-blue curtain festooned with white lace. The floor dips a little where a drain is cut into the ground. In the center of the room is a bathtub the color of Soris's teeth. It also looks like it has Soris's paws. It is crouched over a stone platform, and the smoldering remains of a fire. Some clean clothes are folded on a wooden table nearby, along with a dish containing a pile of things that look like little carved figurines, as well as a sponge the size of my open hand.

The bathtub is big enough for a human to fully recline in, and more than adequate for one elf, especially a scrawny one like me. It is filled to the brim with enough hot water to satisfy half the alienage's sanitary needs and I am in awe at such luxury and cannot even begin to imagine the amount of kindling it took to heat all of it up. And did Eamon say that it was kept heated and waiting for my return? Maker's breath, the water might as well be made of sovereigns. I also do not know how to swim, and I am honestly afraid that I might drown. I hope I do not fall asleep.

Blessed Andraste, that is just what I need—escape death at Fort Drakon, drown in a bathtub an hour later. Leliana could write something rollicky with that one, I am sure.

Nigella coughs politely and I turn and look at her. I cannot even bother to hide the confusion I feel.

"I suppose I am supposed to get undressed?" I ask.

"Yes, serah. Behind the curtain." She points to the corner of the room and its mysterious covering. I walk over and raise the cloth like a tent flap. There is nothing but a long padded table with a very fluffy towel on top behind it.

Nigella coughs again, much closer this time, and I jump and drop the cloth and turn again to find her standing right next to me. She is a little taller than me and very pretty, and I hope that she has not come from Redcliffe alone. I overheard some of the human maids gossiping about her and the contempt they have for the slender elven maid is apparent. There are worse things to be than in Denerim alone, but for an elf, it is dangerous enough.

I smile and quirk my brow when she gives me a questioning look. "I'm from the alienage, Nigella. You're going to have to give me a hint or two."

Nigella smiles a little at that. "Just close the curtain behind you and leave all of your clothes on the bench, serah. You can use the towel to cover yourself if you like."

"Oh," I say, and lift the curtain again. "That seems easy enough."

Once behind its length, I shed my armor and clothes and set them on the bench as instructed, and unwind the remaining bandages on my torso as well. My wounds make it hard to move, but they are clean, which is a good sign. My armor is scratched and scuffed and covered in dirt and blood, and I flush at the study in contrasts my threadbare and much abused clothing paints next to a single towel.

I pick up the towel and am astonished when it unravels into something that I would consider more like a blanket than a towel. I bet I could pitch a tent with it. It is the same shade of blue as the curtain I stand behind and even thicker than my bedroll, and even softer than Leliana's favorite silk handkerchief. I wrap it around my shoulders like a cloak and feel silly, and fold it in half lengthwise so that it does not drag on the ground and wrap it around my waist and feel like I am wearing some kind of puffy Orlesian skirt. Oh dear, I think, and unfold it again to wrap it back around my shoulders, bending to pick up the trailing tail end. Well, hopefully Nigella will be tactful enough not to laugh out loud.

She is, but I still catch the mirth in her brown eyes. "Are you sure this isn't a blanket?" I ask.

She turns, leading me back towards the tub. "It's one of Lady Isolde's," she says over her shoulder. "You are in Lady Isolde's private washroom. Arl Eamon has requested that you not mention this to her the next time you meet; hers was the only washroom convenient, but she is unlikely to understand that."

"Oh, surely," I say, joining her by the rim of the tub where a stepstool waits on the floor. "If I may ask...why is there a mirror in here?"

She blinks serenely. "You have met Lady Isolde, have you not?"

"Fair enough." I hide a smile and put a foot on the stepstool, pausing to look into the tub and wonder again if I am about to drown.

Nigella holds out her hand. I look at it blankly. She coughs again.

"Helping you in, serah."

"Really?" I ask. "And please, call me Daen."

She drops her hand and actually blushes. "I can't, serah. You're a Grey Warden."

I shrug. "I was Daen before I became a Warden, and I still am Daen now. Daen from Denerim. Nothing fancy. We're both elves, Nigella. Treat me like your most troublesome cousin and we'll be fine."

Nigella laughs. "I didn't want to say it, but you do remind me of a cousin of mine from Highever. She's a good girl, and no trouble at all, though. And about your age—her fifteenth birthday was last month."

"Good _girl_? And fifteen?" I laugh. "Nigella, I turned twenty-one two months ago." She looks like she is about to start calling me "serah" again, so I clarify quickly. "But everyone tells me I look young for my age. I get it all the time. Don't worry about it."

"That makes you closer to my age, then, doesn't it?" she says, and extends her hand again.

I hand her the towel instead and hoist myself into the tub as quickly as I can, stifling a groan as the heat penetrates my bruises and licks at my cuts. There is a stool of sorts on the bottom of the tub, and perched on top of it my head is thankfully well above the top of the water. Now that I am inside, I can smell something flowery emanating from the water. I cannot place the scent at first, but it is very robust and nothing like Andraste's Grace and makes me think of ostentatious, many-petaled flowers with blooms the size of my fist. I do not know what they are called, but nobles love them, and they are best left alone because their stems and vines are completely covered in thorns. Underneath the flowers, I detect an astringent note that means elfroot and am relieved that there is at least some purpose to all of the other smells. Elfroot helps to stop bleeding, but it does not smell entirely pleasant on its own. It reminds me of Morrigan; she smells like it for days whenever she prepares potions containing it.

I had hoped that Nigella would be too busy folding the towel to see my body, more out of a sense of modesty than anything else, but I catch her eyes flickering away and a strange look passes over her face. She walks back to the curtain and I hear her retrieving the armor and clothes I left there. "I'll send for the healer," she says when she emerges with her armload.

"Oh, no. They aren't as bad as they look," I tell her. "I'll see Wynne soon enough. Save your healer's strength for someone who really needs it."

She bobs her head. "If that is what you desire, se—Daen."

"It is. Thank you, Nigella. And I'm sorry about the smell."

She pauses beside the door. "Don't apologize for that. The fish reminds me of Redcliffe. I've smelled worse." She bows before leaving, the door clicking shut behind her.

I am alone again.

I try to clear my mind and relax, but with nothing else in the room to hold my thoughts, they turn instead towards the earlier rescue of the Queen. I will request that I be allowed to return home after the bath. It is not so strange that Morrigan still has not shown any signs of being disturbed by my behavior, although Leliana seems a little nervous, as I would have expected. They must have told Alistair and Wynne something, but other than the significant looks and Wynne's forestalled lecture earlier, there is no contempt, no twisted lips, not even a hint of fear—perhaps they all mean to speak with me when I am done with my bath. And I have not seen Zevran since I arrived, and I do not know what to make of that. Perhaps it just means that he is tired of me now.

Maker.

The smell of onions and fish and tomatoes is back in my nose. I lean and grab the dish with the sponge and little carvings in it, and discover that the carvings are actually pieces of soap shaped like those fat naked children with wings that decorate the walls of the room. They smell like the water I sit in, but without the undercurrent of elfroot. Leliana would like them. I almost set the one I hold aside to save for her, but the scented water alone clearly is doing nothing on its own to combat my own odor and I dip the soap-child in the water and rub it all over the sponge, watching its oddly gleeful expression melt away into an indistinct lump.

I scrub at my arms and legs and body, rinse, and scrub some more. The smell is still there. The soap-child is much softer than the harsh bars I grew up with, and is soon gone as I lather and scrub over and over again. I can _still_ smell it. Fish and onions, and tomatoes—blessed Andraste, whatever the guards at Fort Drakon are fed, they must get enough of it to kill a nug. _Ten_ nugs.

I grab another one of the soap figurines and lather the sponge again. When that piece has disappeared, I sit in the tub and sniff the air.

Flowers and elfroot. And tomatoes and onions. And _fish_.

"Andraste's flaming knickers on a flagpole!" I practically shriek, my frustration rendering me nonsensical. What was it? Where was it all coming from? I rise from the water and teeter precariously in the tub. The water still goes up to my waist. Maker take my height and ridiculously enormous bathtubs that aren't made for elves.

I turn and see myself in the mirror, all skin and bones, and pulsing with bruises and scars and angry red slashes, painted from neck to waist with suds and the shiny slick of water. But my pale blond hair floats dry and free, and my face is practically untouched. My reflection narrows its eyes at me and before I know it, I am submerged, my eyes screwed shut and my fingers pinching my nostrils closed.

I have never been completely underwater before, and the foreign feeling of water all around me makes my heart pound like a hammer at a nail. I can hear it echo in my ears with all of the force of fifty festival drums beating the same frantic rhythm. The water feels too much like a giant fist closing around my entire body, and I sit up and feel my way back to the stool, scrubbing soapy water from my eyes and slicking my sopping hair back with both hands so that my bangs do not drip into my face. I fumble for a piece of soap and rub it straight into my hair. I rub the last melting sliver into my face with both hands for good measure, and then submerge again, scrubbing the suds away underwater.

I surface the moment my hands no longer feel slippery and wipe my face. I think that perhaps the smell has lessened, but it is still there. And even worse, the back of my neck begins to warm, and I can feel coarse hands on my wrists and a sword at my throat and teeth scraping at my lips and a fist in my hair and the unyielding edge of a table digging and digging over and over and over again into my hipbones until I cannot breathe, and everywhere is the smell of tomatoes and onions and enough fish to call an army of cats home—

I grab more soap and try again and again. I think the smell lessens each time I pull myself back to the surface, but it is still there. Soon I cannot use the sponge any more, because I have scrubbed at myself so hard already that the water begins to dot with delicate little blossoms of pink. But my hands are good enough, and I lather myself all over with the last soap-child, this time remembering to attack my hair and even cleaning under all of my nails. I slip my bottom off of the stool and go under and scrape the soap away.

I suppose I should sit up again. I know I should; I can only hold my breath for so long, and I do not know how much longer I can tolerate just floating there inside the fist of water with nowhere to go. But I cannot bring myself to touch air just yet. What if I do, and the smell is still there? Would Nigella think it strange if I beg for more soap? I cover my face with my hands underwater, and my hair drifts across my fingertips, tickling them like the gaping lips of little fish—_fish_! Maker, I have never hated fish more in my entire life. They will smell it on me everywhere I go. Onions and tomatoes and _fish_. I will never touch any again for as long as I live.

Hands grip my shoulders, and I start kicking and yelling before I remember where I am. I am hauled upright, coughing and choking up a lungful of flower-scented water and soap suds, and I try to punch whoever my assailant is while water dribbles from my open mouth and out of my nostrils. I can't stop my flailing even long enough to wipe my face, so I can't open my eyes. I make contact with something, and then the hands are suddenly on my wrists and I panic even more and try to bash the attacker's face with my forehead instead. Whoever he is, he is saying something, but I can't understand him and I do not want to hear what he is saying anyway. It is probably things like telling me what a pretty elf I am or what a good boy I am, and the words will be followed by the smell of fish exhaled hot on my mouth, I am sure they will because they always are and I know I should stop fighting because those hands might be all over Soris or Shianni next to punish me for not obeying but I can't stop and I can't let it happen again because I've reached my limit, I've had enough.

I hear a female voice that I recognize but cannot place, and for one heart-stopping moment I think it is my mother and beg Andraste out loud to not let this be happening all over again. She is yelling, too. "What are you doing? Let him go, he wants you to let him go, can't you see?" she says, and feet patter across the room. I am shocked when this actually works, and the sudden absence of hands on me calms me faster than I thought possible.

I wipe my face with hands that will not stop shaking and force myself to breathe before I open my eyes.

Zevran knees in a puddle of water and suds with what looks like half of the contents of the tub all over him, his hands raised in the air by his head. Nigella stands an armslength away from me, a broom in her hands, the bushy end upright at a threatening angle. The door is mercifully closed and perhaps that means no one else saw me trying to punch the living daylights out of Zev and generally treating him like he had just tried to...

"Zev?" I say. I feel like I haven't seen him in a lifetime. The window is wide open, and that is surely how he managed to get in. I should be laughing at his sly ingenuity, but I cannot. And he is not smiling, either. The lazy eyes are the same as always, but the half smile is buried.

"Serah?" Nigella says tentatively at my elbow. She touches me hesitantly, her fingers lighter than a butterfly's feet on my arm. "Daen? Is everything all right?"

"It's fine, Nigella," I manage. I turn and make myself smile at her, and around her I glimpse myself in the mirror, my smile forced and my eyes wild. No wonder she thought I was fifteen; I have never seen myself look so young before this. "I'm sorry. Could you please get an extra towel and something to clean the floor with? I'll wipe up the mess."

"No need. I'll take care of the water. But I will return with the towels." She bows. "Would you like me to call some guards to remove this man as well?"

"I can remove myself," Zev says, rising to his feet.

"No!" I grab his hand before I can stop myself, and that makes my hand slap into his with an intensity that can only read as undisguised desperation. It is the truth, I suppose. "Stay, please. I...I'm sorry. I don't know what I was..."

I trail off and Nigella excuses herself, bowing and leaving the room hastily.

It is just Zev and me now. He is dripping wet, and the way his hair sticks to his face is so unlike the deliberate way he slicks it back with water when we have bathed together in the past. The curving lines of the tattoo at his temple are barely visible beneath a clump of wet hair. But nothing could obscure his eyes, amber and aglow with something I do not recognize.

"Not the reunion I expected," I say, letting go of his hand. "I'm...I'm glad you're all right."

He says nothing, and uses the hand I just released to rake his hair away from his face. There he is, the vain Antivan I love so much. Nothing could shake him, not hopeless odds in a darkspawn ambush, not staring down the throat of a high dragon—and, I hope, not a few gallons of water and the remains of all of the soap in the room.

"I had hoped to surprise you," he finally says, and an eyebrow rises like a bird's wing and the half smile is back. I almost collapse back underwater in relief. "I think it is safe to say that I have succeeded, no? But remind me not to try that again."

"Of course," I say, and laugh nervously and uncontrollably. "Um...you can use my towel. I'll wait for Nigella."

He takes the folded square of blue fluff from the table and prowls the room as he dries himself off. I watch him pace, his muscles sliding beneath his skin and his steps as silent as a cat's. He pauses to take a look at what is behind the blue curtain, and then turns away, disinterested, and circles back to me.

"Very Orlesian, this washroom," he says. "I killed a merchant woman in a room such as this. She dealt in silks and things that went with them—special soaps and pillows and beds, and slaves to warm them. The mirror made things interesting, both before and after." He studies his reflection while he speaks, and I do not know if he sees it when mine flinches. Then, so casually: "They did not harm you in Fort Drakon, did they?" And I am far too eager to assure him they did not.

"Oh, no, they just had me in a cell. I just, you know, picked the lock and sneaked out. It was pretty easy." And it is too easy to lie to him. "The guard was very light. The food was terrible, though. If you thought Alistair's was bad..."

The half smile disappears and my heart is in my mouth. He knows I am lying. I feel like dirt is crawling its way up my arms again and I do not realize I am rubbing at them until Zev puts his hands on mine and stops their erratic climb. "You have scrubbed yourself raw already and are as wrinkled as an apple left under the sun," he chides. "Time to get out, _amora_." So I stand and start to climb out of the tub, but the sides are slippery and my legs will not cooperate.

Hands hold me again and lift me straight up and catch me behind my knees to swing me over the lips of the basin. I am in his arms, as naked as a hatchling, and I force myself to be brave and look up to meet his half-lidded gaze.

And it all starts to disappear behind a veil of water.

No. No. I have not cried since my mother died, and perhaps that is where it is all coming from, years of holding the growing scream inside now scrabbling at those walls to spill it all out in one fell swoop. Swooping is really very bad, Alistair. You were right.

I do not know why I feel so helpless and raw, when what happened in Fort Drakon bears only a remote relation to what has happened in the past. But I will not weep in front of him. I cover my eyes with one hand, rubbing my temples to feign a headache. "Could you put me down?" I ask, willing myself not to lose control of my voice. He hesitates, but obliges. I wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face in his still-damp chest as soon as my feet touch the ground and silently beg him not to move or say anything.

Does he hear me, somehow? I cannot say. But he does not speak, and moves only to drape the towel over my back. One arm encircles my shoulders and the other cups a hand over the place where my head and neck meet, and together they draw me even closer, tucking me beneath his chin and molding me against an immovable body. I inhale leather and flowers with thorns and elfroot, and that musky note that is him and him alone. My tears are gone. I slide one hand up his back to rest between his shoulderblades, because that is where it belongs.

At some point, I turn my head to breathe and see us in the mirror. I look tiny in his arms, so ridiculously pale and small and drowning in a fluffy blue towel that trails on the floor behind me. And he rests his chin on my head, his eyes closed, his hair dark with water and slicked flat against his skull, and there is a line in his forehead that I have never seen before, like an invisible hand has reached out and pinches him just there. I do not know who looks more like he is about to collapse. I hope it isn't him. But I also hope it isn't me.

I cannot wish for this moment to last forever. But I can wish that I will always feel this complete.

* * *

_I've read some arguments about what proper fanfic entails, and I guess that _Clouds_ might not count as "real" fanfic in some circles. All I can say is I strive to keep true to canon atmosphere as much as possible, but I was never completely satisfied with the depiction of city elf life in the DA universe. It was never really felt so much as told; you have your elves living in a ghetto and you're told they're unhappy and such, but I never really got a good sense of how pervasive that unhappiness can be, even playing as a City Elf in DA:O. The heroics of the Rescue-the-Bride scenario seems too classic a fairy tale to explain why the city elves as a group are the way they are, complete with damsels in distress (bridesmaids) and mwa-ha-ha villain (Hawke-I mean, Bann Vaughan) and the princess who needs your help (Duncan-okay, sorry, maybe that doesn't quite work). The Mage origin has a much clearer atmosphere of oppression and a highly defined opposing force, which I think helps with the sexiness of playing a mage (you know, other than throwing fireballs and dealing with possession and all of that special jazz). Even a Dalish origin is pretty appealing because of how the Dalish openly defy oppression and the dominant human voice by living completely apart from them. __But city elves are just short bitter humans with pointy ears who can't seem to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, and they are a marginal voice in DA:O, and even more so in DA2. Maybe theirs is just a story too psychological to be captured within the parameters of the game._

_So along comes Daen. A survivor in more ways than one._

_If anyone feels like I'm taking too many liberties with canon, though, let me know. And, you know...anything else. I'm rusty, both in fanfic writing and as a creative writer. I mean, it's been ten years since my last real creative endeavor and I've been doing nothing but Informational Materials in between. Egads._

_The title has grown on me so I guess I'm sticking with it._

_Sorry about the long author note._

_Until next time. -K_


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Denerim holds the alienage cupped in the valley of its hand, its fingers the walls of steel and stone that confine us within. But no matter how much I hate the alienage, it is also my home: The place where my older cousins chase after the younger; where aunties pinch my cheeks and tell me how much I look like my mother; where my father leaves through the front gates when they open at dawn and comes back through them just before they close at dusk; where Shianni sits before a fireplace minding a pot of her Denerim rabbit stew, while Soris needles her about how many "rabbits" she's caught that day.

There are many things about the alienage that I would love to see destroyed for good. But there are also things that I would do anything to protect, every single one living and breathing and laughing and crying in that pit of filth mixed with fleeting moments of happiness. I cannot wait to return.

Supper with Eamon, Riordan, Queen Anora, and the others is mostly uneventful, although Eamon and the Queen raised their eyebrows more than once at the way entire plates of food simply vanish in the face of the Grey Warden appetite. "If only darkspawn came roasted and stewed," Eamon murmurs, and the Queen titters behind a raised hand.

Riordan, as it turns out, is not as stern a man as I thought he was, nor does he have a fetish for elves as I feared. It bothers me that Alistair seems to defer to him as the senior Warden, as Riordan's presence does not mean that Alistair is not still the senior Ferelden Warden. But Riordan himself is a good man, particularly after his third glass of wine, even though I continue to catch him giving both Alistair and me one of his still looks. He must have something to tell us that he does not want to say in front of Eamon, and I wonder how bad it might be.

Queen Anora drinks as much wine as Riordan does and behaves as though she is in her cups, but there is steel in her eyes and perfect control in her face, and I know that she is not nearly as sodden as she would have us believe. I do not know much about her, however. I suppose I should be able to simply call her Anora as Eamon does, as she is no longer truly the Queen; but she carries herself as if she still is one, and it is difficult for me to think of her as anything but. She may be a farmer's daughter but she speaks like a noblewoman, and I sense that she is as invested in the game of politics as Eamon is, perhaps even more so—although it is to be expected. She is also incredibly stunning in both a gown and a guard's uniform, which even I have to appreciate.

I do not trust her much, although I owe her for sending her guards to retrieve Zevran and the others after I was taken to Fort Drakon. Something in her clipped tone and the way her eyes slant like a cat's makes me even more wary when speaking with her. She claims that she was the true ruler behind the throne when King Cailan was alive, and while I cannot say whether that is true, I would not be surprised to learn that it was.

I am ready to go to sleep on a full stomach when Queen Anora decides to drop the other shoe. There is something strange going on in the alienage, and her own father is possibly to blame for it, much as he was possibly to blame for her own kidnapping. Why would Loghain be concerned with elves now, particularly when they are just recovering from a plague? The man just keeps handing me reasons to gut him at the first opportunity.

It seems that I will return home as a Grey Warden after all. I want to head out immediately, but Eamon points out that the gates are probably closed by now. We must wait until tomorrow.

Eamon's Denerim estate is not nearly as large as Redcliffe Castle, and we make do for the night camping out in his library, tucking our bedrolls beside bookshelves or under tables. Eamon offered Alistair and me each our own private rooms, but we both declined in favor of staying with the others. I asked that Wynne be given my room instead. She never complains beyond passing comments on her "old bones," but I have seen her rubbing herself with a grimace in the mornings and I thought she might miss sleeping in a bed.

Zev puts his bedroll between the wall and me in the sheltered alcove I have chosen for myself, tucked between a long bookshelf and a corner of the room. I just shrug when he unrolls his bedding there; the others are in the same room, after all, and even if we cannot quite see each other around the bookshelves, even Zev would not try anything with them so well within earshot. And it would be nice to sleep beside him again, which I have avoided since we left Redcliffe with Eamon.

Nor would he try anything with Soris so close, I reason. Soris has settled himself at the opposite end of the bookshelf, close enough to be guarding but far enough that I cannot touch him. He smells of flowers and his fur is as sleek and shiny as the coat on a nobleman's mabari, and he probably will not forgive me for letting Nigella give him a bath. I think he looks rather pretty this way, although he will not stop shooting me betrayed looks.

Oghren eyeballs us as I slip between my covers, Zev already tucked away within his. "No funny stuff, y'hear?" he says. "I want t' be able t' sleep without hearin' the pair o' ye dagger duelin' or knife knockin' or whatever ye elves call it."

"We call it sex, my short friend," Zev says innocently, propping himself up on one elbow. He is shirtless tonight—I suppose it is warm enough indoors for that. "And I swear to you, when we duel, it is with swords, not daggers or knives. Or is that what you dwarves call it?"

Oghren snorts. "We don' duel. 'Cept in the Proving Grounds."

"Ah, I recall our time there well. So hot it was on the Grounds, proving one's prowess in such close quarters. Man to man, or in groups falling towards each other and twining limbs together in one glorious tangle of blood and sweat, and so much heavy breathing—"

"Maker's breath," Alistair mutters from somewhere on the far side of the room. "Does he never stop?"

"We should be so lucky," Morrigan growls.

"Jus' promise me I ain't gonna hear nothin' from ye." Oghren glares at us and stumps off to his own place below a low table.

"Rest easy, Oghren," Zevran calls after him. "You shall hear nothing more from me tonight."

"_Or_ the Warden."

"Or the Warden. Alas."

Morrigan puts the candles out with a wave of her hand and darkness falls. There are no windows, and I lie there and breathe deeply, listening to the sounds of my companions drifting to sleep around me.

I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel a bare hand slip up my shirt and rest on my stomach. It nearly spans the width of my waist and it can belong to nobody else. "Zev, stop," I hiss.

"Bite my shoulder as you always do, _amora,_" he whispers, his body shifting to cover mine. "I have missed the touch of your teeth on me."

"You're more likely to feel Soris's teeth on you."

"Your dog and I, we have reached an understanding. And nobody else will hear us over the sound of our soggy dwarf friend's snoring."

Oghren is indeed snoring; if there were windows in the room, they would be rattling in their frames. I am a little surprised that the table he is sleeping under has not collapsed on him yet.

I slip my hands up his arms and touch my lips to his throat and feel him vibrate with a pleased purr in response. I have missed him, too, and want him now, even where we are; I cannot deny it. But we have not spoken about what transpired in the washroom earlier today, and I know I owe him an explanation for that just as much as I do for what happened at the Arl of Denerim's estate. The growing heat in my body struggles against the chill of what Zev still does not know before it is silenced.

"Not tonight. We can't. They'll...they'll hear us."

I hear the pleading whine that seems to come from deep within me and do not know what he will make of that. Thank the Maker there was no fish at dinner tonight. I smell only him in my nose right now—leather and musk, and something clean like rosemary, which I have never detected on him before.

He pauses above me, and I can almost hear him considering. "If that is your desire," he says, and his weight is suddenly gone as he resettles himself beneath his own blanket.

And with his departure, I feel nothing but emptiness all around me.

He is so close. I try to close my eyes and clear my mind, but I cannot. The dreams of the Archdemon grow stronger and more vivid with every passing day. The dragon is enormous in them, as large as a castle and with eyes that seem to see me no matter where I am. And every time I meet its gaze, I hear a sound in my head—something between a song and a chant, given life by the most beautiful and monstrous voice I have ever heard. Every night, I yearn to join my voice to its voice as much as I want to scream at the horror of what that means. Even if I cannot understand the words, the meaning is always clear. The Archdemon calls me to it, and I live in fear of the day when I might open my eyes and see the dragon before me outside of the dream. And that day is fast approaching.

Sometimes sleeping with Zev by my side helps the dreams seem not so vivid or real. But that is not why I reach for him in the dark tonight, slipping beneath his blanket as he had slipped beneath mine, and pulling my entire abandoned bedroll over our heads to hide what his would not.

He is waiting for me to come to him, it seems, and he circles his arms around my waist and draws me to his bare chest, but does nothing else except rest the side of his cheek on the top of my head. "Let us sleep, _amora_," he murmurs. "You have had a long day. And tomorrow we visit your home, no?"

"Are you sure you still want to go?" I ask. We have spoken of this before—not with any deliberate intent, I tell myself; it is just that Zevran did not grow up in an alienage and he wonders what it is like.

"Do not doubt it, _amora_," he says, so I do not. He brushes my ear with a finger. "One day, I will show you my beautiful Antiva City as well. It is nothing like your capitol of Ferelden. The colors, the smells, they are incredible, and all so alive and free. The fish chowder is always perfect." I flinch, and I am sure he had to have noticed that. But he does not miss a beat, and strokes my hair. "Or we will indulge in the wine. Antivan wine puts your Ferelden grape juice to shame. Our lovely Wynne would believe herself drinking pure nectar if she had but one sip of real Antivan wine. Or my personal favorite, the brandy—_qe marvala_."

"And all we have to do is dodge Crows," I murmur into his neck.

"Yes, there is that," he agrees. "But you and me, we make a good team, no? We shall give them a merry chase and a good fight if it comes to it."

I lie cocooned against him, wrapped in darkness all around, and drift to sleep. The nightmare comes, as it has not failed to do for at least the past fortnight; but in the dream this time, I hear a smooth, baritone voice that falls like syrup into my ears, and even though the song of the Archdemon does not lessen, I hear that other voice and the dragon frightens me no longer.

I wake pillowed on Zev's arm and his sleeping face a bare inch away from mine. I never wake before he does, and I hold as still as I did when we ran across a lonely _halla_ in the Brecilian, just as afraid of driving the sight away with a single movement now as I had been then. He looks like a sculpture, molded with careful attention before its casting in bronze, his stillness broken only by a slight movement of his eyes beneath lids tipped with heavy lashes of sandy wheat. I cannot even begin to imagine how he will look when time finally catches up to him; he seems a thing immortal, blessed to be forever sleek and quick and golden and young. All the same, I have never wished more to be there to watch over the years as that change happens, both to him and to me.

I mold myself back around him in an embrace that earns me an incomprehensible mumble and an absent-minded brush of his hand through my hair.

"_Buon jiurna_,_ amora_," he slurs. "_Com qe te dorma come divola, ayana_?_ Io dicun toda i tempa anoqe, moto stanca...pera...sinqe minutas mas_..._per favora_..."

He fades away, his face relaxing, and I laugh into his wheat-gold hair because I should have recognized that sleep-laced voice as it drifted through my sleep last night. An amber eye cracks open and captures me in its bemused regard.

"And what is so amusing, _gatto_?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say.

* * *

_Notes on Antivan__: If you didn't catch my note in_ Beak,_ the Antivan I use is me making stuff up in a Spanish-Italian creole, so I apologize for the weirdness.  
_Qe marvala = It's incredible/amazing/marvelous

Buon jiurna, amora = Good morning, love

Com qe te dorma come divola, ayana? = _Something like_ "how do you manage to sleep like a demon?"

Io dicun toda i tempa anoqe, moto stanca = _Something like_ "You kept me talking all last night, it was very tiring"

Pera, sinqe minutas mas per favora = Just five more minutes, please (poor Zev)

Gatto = cat

_One short & sweet chapter before the classic storm blows in. _Denfree_, thanks for the feedback; it's very encouraging._

_Until next time. -K_


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

I initially only asked Alistair and Zevran along to the alienage. Soris followed at our heels, eager to escape both the confines of Eamon's estate and the scent of flowers; he wriggled gleefully into the dirt at the first opportunity.

I did not ask Leliana, as she was still nervous, although I was very tempted to; if there is a story that needs a minstrel's voice, it is the alienage. Morrigan refused, claiming that the alienage was too dirty for her liking. Sten and Shale, I could not ask—a kossith would terrify half of my relatives and give all of the aunties heart attacks, and we also truly need the few chickens we have. And Oghren, I simply could not inflict on my own family.

Wynne invited herself along, to my surprise, but it was a fortunate decision. None of us had known what to expect of the "trouble" the Queen had mentioned yesterday, least of all a troupe of slavers purchasing my relatives and shipping them to Tevinter like so many heads of cattle. We were too late for many of my family, including Elder Valendrian. And we were nearly too late for my father.

The Tevinter blood mage who dared to try and buy my father's life was a fool to offer me power in exchange for his own safety. The source of that power would have been my father himself, and my vision turns red at the very suggestion. After Alistair transfixes the mage through his stomach with his sword, I saw my dagger across his throat, with two quick strokes that go clean through the jugular and split his windpipe in the process. The mage tries to pull our blood from us while he dies, and although his magic does not work fast enough to save his life, the blood that covers the corpse as Alistair kicks it to the floor is as much his and mine as it is the mage's. I am more concerned for my father than I am for anything else. I fumble for the keys, slippery at the mage's belt, and unlock the door.

I do not realize how much becoming a Warden has changed me until I am pulling my father out of the slaver's cage. I have always thought him so much larger and stronger than me. But today I see the sallow skin, the wasting muscles, the bones beneath skin parched and bruised. I am still skinny compared to my companions, but I see now that my arms are defined and smooth, my back straight, my skin taut over cords of muscle and sinew.

Beside my father, I feel as though I stand as tall as Alistair, and I am ashamed to have left him in this condition. I reach out to hug him but begin to stagger. Wynne grabs me by the shoulders before I tip over completely.

"Why are you so confoundingly insistent on expelling all of the blood in your body in one go?" she demands. "Magic has its limits when it comes to flat out blood loss. Sit down before you crack your skull open on something and...let me see what I can do."

That is Wynne's code for calling on the spirit she holds inside of her body, and I nod and slide to the floor against the side of the cage that had held my father. He kneels beside me and grabs my shoulder. Alistair already sits there, holding his head between his hands and grimacing. "Thanks, Wynne," I manage. "But do something about Alistair first."

"For Maker's sake, I am no worse off than you," Alistair growls. "I've got more blood in me than you do, at least. Stop treating me like I'm some kind of fancy antique vase."

"You _are_, in all of that armor," I retort. I have to hold my head in my hands, too, as the room begins to tilt around me. "Replace 'vase' with 'trash can,' though."

"Says the guy who's split his skull on a doorframe because he won't wear a helmet. I've never even gotten a scratch 'til now."

"No, but you've been knocked about plenty of times. Who knew fancy antique trash cans made such attractive targets?"

"Will you two stop _bickering_?" Wynne says, and slaps a hand on each of our foreheads. "Maker preserve us. Ferelden's only hope, and you two fight like an old married couple."

Her hand heats my forehead and the warmth spreads through my body until it is even in my fingertips and toes, and I feel as though I am soaking in a tub of hot water again as my exhaustion begins to fall away.

"Ooh, that's nice, Wynne," Alistair remarks. "And new. Been doing some, er, research?"

"Something like that," Wynne mutters. She takes her hands away. We both try to stand immediately, only to get slapped on the forehead again as she pushes us back down. Alistair manages an "uh, ouch" and I mumble something that was probably a little rude.

"Don't move around too much. You probably _feel_ better now, but my magic alone isn't going to restore all of the blood you lost. Both of you need to eat something."

"Right. I'll take a roast chicken and whatever's bubbling on the stove. And if you have those little wafer cookies for afters, could you bring them out, too?" Alistair mimes tying a napkin around his neck, then puts his hands down abruptly and knocks his forehead on his raised knees. "Okay. Too much moving. Not good."

"What did I just tell you?" Wynne demands.

"If you don't mind, maybe I could help," my father says tentatively. "Shianni's been experimenting with a new batch of her Denerim rabbit stew. I can't really vouch for how tasty this one will be, but it's usually very good."

"Did you say rabbit stew?" Alistair's head bounces back up. "Didn't even know they had rabbits in Denerim. Are they like some kind of mysterious species of alley rabbit?"

"You could say that," I say. I strain to maintain a sober expression. I do not know how Alistair will react if he finds out what really goes inside Denerim rabbit stew. I suppose it could be considered a rabbit if one shrank the rabbit's hind legs, clipped its ears, and added a long, scaly tail. "But, Dad, we can't take your food. There's plenty at Arl Eamon's. And Grey Wardens eat a lot."

Dad scratches his chin. "Well, to be perfectly honest, Shianni's been looking for volunteers to test her new experiment on. She's been finding it...difficult. You'll be doing all of us a favor if you fill that role."

"Oh, Maker no. It's that stew-casserole hybrid again, isn't it?"

He laughs. "She found a nest of...rabbits the other day, and thought it was a sign to try that recipe out again. We'll be eating them for days at this rate. So don't worry about eating your share—it's the least we can do after you and your friends took care of those slavers." He pats my arm. "Besides, we need to welcome one of our own home somehow."

It takes some teamwork to make it to my father's house, with Alistair teetering against Zevran for support and Wynne spotting him, and me practically riding on Soris's back. We receive quite a few looks along the way, and I am glad that my friends are too preoccupied with keeping Alistair upright to notice. Both Alistair and Wynne expressed varying degrees of surprise upon entering the alienage, and even though my own heart sang at the squelch of mud and snow beneath my boots as we stepped off the bridge leading into the alienage proper and the thick odors of life, strong even in the dead of winter, I knew that what they saw inside was unlike everything either was raised among. Zevran, however, is impassive, both then and now. I hope that is a good sign.

Shianni and Soris have been waiting for us in Dad's house, and they are glad to see us return. I decide not to spoil Soris's relief and introduce mabari Soris to them as "Dog."

"That's not his name," Alistair mumbles absently. He is far too large for the chair he sits in, and a little tall for the table, too.

"Oh, yes it is," I say quickly before Alistair can say more. Zevran helps me settle into another chair, using this as an excuse to rest his hands on my shoulder as if making sure I can stay upright. "I'm fine, Zev."

"_Si, amora_," he says, and winks as I sit up straight in my chair. He doesn't even bother trying to say it without the throaty purr he injects into those two words, and my spine tingles as if he has just brushed his hand up its entire bare length. I am suddenly very conscious of his proximity, despite his relaxed posture. I did warn him about hiding our relationship while we were in the alienage—if there was one thing that could give the aunties actual heart attacks, it would be Zev and me—but I had been mostly concerned about his propensity for touching me in awkward places. I forgot about his damn voice.

"Was that Antivan?" Soris puts a pair of dented metal bowls on the table, each filled with a pile of mostly soup-like gravy interspersed with thick strings of browned meat and dots of peas and some sort of green vegetable, and covered with grainy biscuit-like blobs of dough. "What does that mean? I've always wanted to learn."

"It means 'yes, boss,'" Zevran says innocently. He still has not taken his hands away.

"Oh, really," I say, pulling a bowl towards me. Two can play that game. "What about 'got-o'?"

"_Gatto_? It means 'venerable wise one, with eyes that sparkle like chips of black diamonds, or the stars in the vast darkness of the night sky.'" He does not miss a beat, and winks again when I glance up at him.

"That's a lot of meaning for one little word," Soris comments.

"There is much that gets lost in translation, my young friend."

"Can you teach me how to say something?"

"It would be my pleasure!" He moves to face Soris.

Oh, no. I try to catch his eye again, but he studiously refuses to look at me.

"Huh," Alistair pipes up, taking my attention away from Soris and Zev. "There are _no_ bones in this stew whatsoever. That is incredible."

"If you marinade them and then simmer them long enough in a covered pot, the meat falls right off and you can pick the bones out," Shianni says, joining us at the table.

"See, I've thought about that, but Morrigan won't let me use the stew pot long enough to try it out. I don't mind the bones, though, I think it makes the rabbit taste fuller."

"They do, but they're sort of small and annoying, don't you think? They always get caught in my teeth."

"So, Shianni, what've you tried that's different this time?" I interrupt, scooping a bit of meat up with the small wooden slat we use for spoons.

"Well, I sort of chopped the tails up fine and mixed them into the biscuits." She wrinkles her nose, and then claps her hands together. "Oh, and spring onions! Found them growing in the lot behind the Pearl."

"And what were you doing at the Pearl?"

"Looking for ra—rabbits, of course. Why else would I be at the Pearl?"

"Isn't that the same lot we found packed with deathroot once?"

"Yes, but that was five years ago. And I am absolutely sure that these are spring onions, not deathroot."

"Because you tasted them."

"Hah! Do I look stupid to you? Trust me, they looked nothing like deathroot. And they kind of looked like spring onions. So don't worry."

"Oh, that's comforting."

"Come on, Daen," Alistair says, tipping his spoon towards me. "If Grey Wardens can't survive eating something that definitely isn't deathroot and probably is spring onion, we sure as cheeses aren't going to survive the Blight."

"Do Grey Warden appetites include an iron stomach?"

"Of course they do. Remember Oghren's homemade ale?"

"Right. Cheers." We bump our spoons together and each stick our respective scoops into our mouths.

Neither of us die or start hallucinating, which I think is a good sign, as it is clear that whatever Shianni found behind the Pearl was not spring onions. They are at least some kind of herb, though. Some kind of very green, very bitter herb. I push my mouthful around in my mouth with my tongue, debating whether I should swallow or not, and decide to do so to avoid having the green taste in my mouth for much longer.

"Wow, this tastes so interesting!" Alistair exclaims around his spoon. "The biscuit really adds something. I don't know what it is. It's almost like...like eating meat and potatoes."

"Oh, that's the egg and tail in the batter," Shianni says. She looks like she has decided to like Alistair and smiles fondly at him. Fastest way to Shianni's heart is through complimenting her cooking. Or her arm strength.

"Interesting. Tail! I never would have thought of it. Rabbit tails are so...fluffy."

"Denerim rabbits have a bit more meat and less fluff on their tails than the rabbits you're thinking of do," I say dryly. "It's a lot better than last time, Shianni. But I don't think those were green onions you found."

Soris overhears me and laughs. "Oh, the ones from behind the Pearl? I kept telling her those were for the Pearl's employees, but she wouldn't listen to me."

"The employees?" I echo.

"Yeah, it's something to help them regulate their monthly cycles and keep pregnancies from happening. They eat it raw, though, so maybe stewing them changes something."

I turn to Alistair. "Well, Alistair, we're never going to be parents now. I'm sure we can always adopt."

"It's a good thing. I thought I could feel my time of the month coming," Alistair says, shoveling another spoonful into his mouth. "Would have made fighting the Archdemon a bit tricky."

Wynne snorts. "You two have no idea, do you?"

"Seriously," Shianni says, rolling her eyes. "But I'm glad you like it. Now tell us about what you've been up to."

I end up getting mostly stuck on what it is like to be a Grey Warden than spending much time recounting our journey from Ostagar to here, but I do not mind. We are all eating together eventually, Wynne very politely dabbling her spoon in her bowl, Zev waxing poetic about the taste until even Shianni gives him suspicious looks, "Dog" swallowing his in two gulps and running outside almost immediately, his sides heaving. Dad and Soris both usually eat like birds, but I suspect their appetites are not what make them decline a second helping. Shianni, however, is abuzz with excitement, flitting back and forth between the pot and the table with heaping bowls of extra biscuits and more stew. She also downs at least three bowls on her own. I laugh and kiss her forehead when she says she'll keep working on it. It is good to be home, and to see Soris and Shianni smile so much. Shianni, especially.

When they find out that Zev was a Crow, the conversation derails entirely as he enthralls Shianni and Soris and completely shocks Dad with the telling of some of his exploits. He eventually reveals that he was originally sent to kill Alistair and me, which makes Dad fix him with a look that should have sent him running up the _vhenedhal_ for safety. Zev, however, simply pretends not to see it.

"But Zevran, if you were sent to kill all of the Ferelden Wardens, why are you traveling with them now?" Shianni asks.

"The Wardens showed me mercy, which is not common in my former life as a Crow. I was intrigued. So I swore to...be theirs, as it were, to repay their mercy by joining my sword to theirs. And I like to think they have found me very useful in many other areas as well."

Alistair snorts. "Well, _one_ of us has."

I kick him under the table and almost tear up as my toes meet an immovable object. He grins. "Fancy antique trash cans are very sturdy," he says smugly, and I almost kick him again.

By the time we have finished Shianni's entire pot, the sun is low on the horizon and dusk is approaching. "We'd better get going," I say, pointing my jaw at the little window by the door. "They'll be shutting the gates soon."

"You could stay the night," Dad offers.

"Oh, no, serah, we cannot take any more advantage of your hospitality than we already have," Alistair says.

Dad flushes at the "serah" and jerks his head in something of a bow. "It...it would not be a problem."

"Eamon has plenty of room for us, trust me. Besides, I snore like a bronto. We'd wake up with the pieces of your home all around our ears." He rises from the table. "Let's get going, then."

I hug Dad, Shianni, and Soris, and we leave the house, picking up "Dog" along the way. He has been waiting for us outside the door with his tongue lolling from his mouth, and there is a suspicious pile of loose snow and dirt nearby that looks exactly like the ones he digs up all around camp every night. This one, however, definitely has something brown and dotted with green beneath it. I pause and decide to leave it be. Hopefully Shianni will not notice it.

The setting sun is the signal for alienage elves to return home, and they stream past us as we work our way towards the front gates—not as many as there used to be, surely a result of the Tevinter slave scheme, but there are many familiar faces among them that I am relieved to see. I smile as we pass and a few smile back, but many overall give us a wide berth, frightened eyes fixing on Alistair and Soris, and even Wynne.

"Why are they all avoiding us?" Alistair asks eventually.

"They're just being cautious," I reply. "It usually isn't a good sign to see an armed human in the alienage."

"So that's why no one was talking to the templar we passed earlier."

"Pretty much. Whatever he's doing here, he's going to have a hard time finding help from any of the elves."

"They're even scared of me," Wynne remarks, her voice confused. "And Soris."

"And me," Zev says, and he is right—he is a stranger elf, and armed, and walking with humans, no less. We have had our own turn on us before, bought by promises of a better life. None in the alienage could truly blame them for leaving, but they were no longer family when they did, consumed instead by the new identity they have donned for themselves. A few of those frightened looks are even directed at me, choosing to focus on Starfang at my back instead of my face.

"Don't take it personally," I say as we reach the bridge. "We learn fast that humans and strangers are best left alone."

We continue in silence, Wynne, Alistair, and Soris pulling ahead and Zevran dropping back so that we walk abreast together across the bridge. I sense that he has questions, and stay silent, inviting him to speak his mind.

"I do not understand, _amora_," he finally says, turning to me when we reach the gate that leads to the marketplace. "You are not like your brethren."

I smile quizzically at him. "Well, they aren't exactly Grey Wardens," I say.

"That is not what I mean. You fight. You have earned the respect you receive. But they are cowardly, like sheep corralled into their pen awaiting their next shearing. Why do they not fight as you do?"

I am stung by his words, but swallow the hurt, telling myself it is not what he intended. "They aren't cowards. We aren't allowed weapons in the alienage. Having them is grounds for execution on the spot."

"But they have their fists, no?"

"You think we can win a fight with just our fists?" I raise a brow.

"No, not just your fists. Your cousin has that pair of kitchen shears I saw hanging by your father's stove. A little unwieldy, but taken apart, it will make a sufficient pair of daggers. Surely she is not the only elf in the entire alienage with kitchen implements. Your tables may be broken down into clubs and sharpened into spears; your windows may be shattered and made into blades; your barrels could be dismantled and strung into bows. Even your merchant sells a few traps, and I am sure he has many connections to other supplies. There are many of you packed into each room until you are spilling out into your own streets; if you were all to attack at once, with the guardsmen here as pathetic and lazy as they are, you would not need to worry about any executions."

"It isn't that simple." I find myself echoing words that I have heard many times throughout my youth. "Violence will not get us out of here."

"Oh?" His voice drips with skepticism. "Is that not how you got out, on your wedding day?"

He still does not know everything that happened that day, and I force myself to breathe and remind myself of that. "I was conscripted. If Duncan hadn't been there, I'd be dead instead, or at least as good as. Elder Valendrian told us that—"

"Perhaps your Elder Valendrian deserved to be shipped off to the Tevinters."

"How can you say that?!"

Wynne has already left us behind, but Alistair stands with his back to a wall across from the gate and near a couple of men deep in conversation, his arms crossed and a questioning look in his eyes. He bounces his back off of the wall and takes a step forward at my outburst, but I gesture for him to stay put with an open palm. Soris stands in front of Alistair, his tail unusually still and his ears pricked forward as if he is trying to overhear our conversation.

"Elder Valendrian kept us all alive more times than I can count. He saw us through plagues, births, deaths—he kept purges from happening. Do you know what the tradition is every new year, what he would get in return for being our Elder? The nobles would stand him in front of everyone under the _vhenedhal_ and take turns kicking him in the ass. If he didn't smile the whole time, they would...take some of us, or destroy things, or threaten a purge. And he never complained, not even once. How dare you say that he _deserved_ to be lost to us like that?" I am shaking, rooted to the spot.

"Kept you safe, and kept you under the heel of every other living thing in this sad city. Even the dogs are treated better than you city elves," he snarls. "Look at the swamp you live in, this pile of filth and disease you claim is your home. You told me once that you are all _miserable_ living here, that it is a _poison_, and yet you do not leave. How can that be anything but _deserving_ what you get?"

My tongue is tied, and I begin to stammer, but for only a moment before the anger takes me over completely. "_Nobody_ deserves this. How can you just saunter among us with your swords and your strength and full stomach and say that _this_ is what we deserve, the disease and the hunger and our bodies wasting away right before our eyes? We live with the scraps that we have. We make them last longer by sharing the burden between us. We do it to survive. We survive together." I shake my head again, trying to clear the tremor from my voice. "Wasn't it like that with the Crows?"

He spits and laughs bitterly. "With the Crows? Only the best survive, and only those who survive are the best. The alliances we form are temporary at best. We may be forbidden from killing each other without a direct order from our Masters, but that does not mean it does not happen." His eyes are stilettos striking at my heart. "What you speak of is not surviving. It is called 'wishful thinking.' A fool's choice at best, and one that you have all chosen together, for whatever pathetic reason that may be."

How can I explain this to someone who has no frame to understand it within? I stare at him and wonder who this venomous creature is, who is nothing like the leonine man with the half smile who prowls after me through battles and the woods, and delights in seeing me squirm at his teasing but holds me even through my worst nightmares. And I wonder if I can keep my past from him just a little while longer, even as I see the image of the proud and unyielding Grey Warden who crawled out of dirt and into sky slipping from his eyes and back into the dirt with every word.

With that desire, I suddenly realize how little Zevran knows about me. We have been circling each other's pasts for the better part of a year, I with a lonely hunger for warm arms and honeyed words, and he for—for what, I do not know. I remember overhearing Morrigan compliment him for working his way into my good graces, and all of Alistair's suspicious glances and thinly veiled remarks about trusting assassins. Wynne, and her lectures on duty and distractions.

My heart throbs in my ears and the ground falls away below me. They were right, sweet Maker, they were right. And still I do not want to lose him.

I plead with my eyes for him to understand, and know that I am failing completely. I cannot keep the stiff, clipped tone from my voice; it is the hallmark of my brimming fury and desperation. "None of us _want_ any of this. We might be sheep in your eyes, but that doesn't mean you can just spit on us like we're nothing at all." I gesture behind me, back over the bridge we have just crossed, to where our hovels squat and mud crawls thick through snow, and where my father sits alone in the dim of his squalid one-room home. "These are the people who raised me, the ones who kept me safe the only ways they knew how, and who I kept safe the only ways I could. They're my family. My home. You wanted to see it, well, there it is. This is the filth that I came from. I don't know how to explain this to you any more than I already have."

He studies me, his hands flexing at his sides and his half smile mere decoration. "You have climbed high in your young life, Warden," he finally says, "but it is clear that freedom is something that sadly remains out of your reach."

He turns away and moves to join Alistair, but I still catch the expression on his face before it is lost to me behind wheat gold hair.

Contempt. Disgust. That sneer. And of all people, I cannot bear the most to see it on him.

The gate guard puts his hand on the lever by the entrance, indifference in his eyes as elves hurry home all around us. Sometimes they pull it before everyone is through; almost everyone who leaves the alienage to go to work can expect to get locked out at least once or twice a year. The aunties warn us that we will be impaled on the gates if we are not fast enough or do not hurry home in time, and although I have never seen it happen myself, the thought of dying with those steel teeth biting clear through me and straight into the ground gave me frequent nightmares as a child. I would spend hours obsessively timing how quickly the gates would fall until I knew the exact moment when it would be too late to slip under them.

That moment arrives, and I let it pass before my nose with a thunderous clatter. Only Soris seems to know what I plan, and he wriggles through the forest of skinny elven legs and gallops to my side just as the gates slide their teeth into the iron-lined grooves in the stone below. Alistair jogs towards us, confusion and concern in his face, and Zevran turns to see me standing behind the crossed bars, Soris wagging his tail beside me.

"What happened? What's going on?" Alistair says. Zevran has placed his hand on one of the bars, his body half-turned between leaving and facing me. His mouth is blocked behind a bar, but his eyes glitter in the fading light above another.

"This happens sometimes. Not everyone's fast enough to beat the gate," I say, lying straight through my teeth. As if on cue, one of my distant cousins comes running up, sees that the gate is closed, and lets out a cry of frustration. He spots me standing behind the bars and runs forward eagerly.

"Daen, is that you? Maker's balls, you look great—especially for a dead elf. Everyone's been saying you died at Ostagar with all of the other Wardens!"

"Hah! A dragon saved me," I say. "Missed the gate again, Asher? I thought you had worked out a deal to leave work early."

"Hah. Right," Asher drawls, leaning against the gate with his arms and legs crossed. "That didn't last for long. Let my mom know where I am, would you? She'll bring out some dinner for me before I go crawling off to find somewhere to sleep."

"Well, can't we just ask the guard to lift the gate again?" Alistair turns to the yawning guardsman. "You, there."

"And who are you, the Queen of Antiva?" Asher asks, eyeing Alistair suspiciously. "The guards don't let the gates up for just anyone after dusk. Says it keeps us all safe. Well, everyone except for the ones that get locked out."

The guard yawned again, not even bothering to cover his mouth. "You heard the elf."

"It's fine, Alistair. I'll just stay at my dad's tonight," I say. "We still have two days before the Landsmeet. I'll just meet you all at Eamon's tomorrow."

Alistair turns back to me. "Are you serious? This isn't right."

"Well, maybe someday you can do something about that," I say, not very subtly. "Anyway, I will see you tomorrow, and we can go about talking to the banns then. Let Eamon know where I am, would you?"

Alistair sighs. "I'd be more worried if you didn't have Soris with you. Sleep well. I'll let the others know." He glances at Zevran, who has said nothing since the gate slammed shut, but whose eyes do not leave me. "You coming, or are you going to try to figure out a way in?"

Zevran turns away. "I think I shall return with you, friend Alistair. These walls look quite capable of keeping unwanted things out. Or in."

I nearly reach for him between the bars, and stop myself before I do more than brush his arm with my fingertips.

He looks back at me, his face impassive. But his eyes are flecks of stone, and they call me a coward far more clearly than if he had simply let the word fall from his lips. And he leaves me standing there.

And I stand there, behind the gate, and watch him walk away.

* * *

_It's hard to write a City Elf without mentioning Shianni's Denerim rabbit stew._

_Thanks to the new followers/favoriters, and thanks again _Denfree_ for the feedback._

_Until next time. -K_


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

I visit Asher's mother first—she is one of my father's distant cousins, and is just as stunned as Asher was to see me alive—to let her know where her son is before continuing on to my father's house. I have not made this journey in a year. I stand outside of the wooden one-room shack I grew up in before knocking, the walls covered in patches and the door etched with the memory of paint. A single candle burns through a window and my father's bony shadow wavers alone against a wall. Shianni and Soris must have left for the night.

I knock on the door and hear my father shuffle to the door within. He opens it a crack and I lean into the sliver of light and wave at him. "Hey, Dad. Mind if I spend the night?"

"Daen?" The door opens fully and he stands beaming at me in the threshold, his arms open and welcoming me inside. "I thought you were going back with the others?"

"I changed my mind," I say, stepping through the door. Soris slips in at my heels, causing my father to take a step back in surprise. "It's a little too fancy at the Arl's for me."

"Well, you're welcome here any time," Dad says, turning back to the kitchen. "Have a seat."

The tenseness in my back does not disappear, but I feel my mind begin to relax. It had not felt wholly like a homecoming earlier, with the little room filled with people who had never been there before, and Zevran's parting words still echo in my ears now. But it had been a long time since I had been alone with my father in this hovel I grew up in, and I cannot help but feel like I have finally come home.

With no other bodies blocking my view, I smile at how little things have changed on the inside. I could pace the entire length of the square room in a dozen steps. It is split into rough quarters, with the kitchen and rock stove crouching in one dark corner, belching the only source of heat into the room; my parent's bed and my own narrower cot along the wall of another corner; a rough shelf made of discarded planks in another corner near the door, and the dining table set near the only window by the entrance. The floor is packed dirt that turns into mud if we do not stuff bags filled with rocks and sand around the outside perimeter in time before spring, and the walls are made entirely of old wood that has been patched over and over again throughout the years. The ceiling is only a few feet above my head, and I remember how close the tips of Alistair's hair came to brushing it. Ours is the only single-floor building in the entire alienage. I do not think it would have withstood another floor on top, anyway.

Remnants of my mother gather in the few brightly embroidered hangings and curtains along the walls—she was just as deadly with a dagger as she was accurate with a needle, and she had made some money selling her works in the marketplace before she died. I know she also did other things that neither she nor my father ever explained to me, other than that it was not prostitution. They had both been very clear on that much. I can only imagine it had something to do with how good she was in a fight. She would disappear for days on end and return with a bound shoulder or leg and her dagger freshly sharpened and cleaned over her back, and a purse of coins at her hip. Those days had always been special to me. She would hug me every time she came home, as tight as if she never wanted to let go. I thought I understood why, now. I hugged Soris the same way sometimes. And Zev.

I see a wooden tub filled with water and the pot Shianni had been using to cook her stew in and shed my armor, leaning it and my swords against my bed. "Let me help you with that," I say, rolling up my sleeves.

"I'm not going to say no to that. Shianni burned a few biscuits on the bottom." He hands me the rough cloth and nods at the bag of dry sand sitting next to the tub. He turns to the stack of damp dishes sitting on the low cutting table and begins drying them off with a ragged dishcloth. "So tell me what you've been up to this past year. I thought you had died with the others. My heart nearly stopped, I tell you!"

I squat by the tub and toss a handful of sand inside, attacking it with the cloth. Soris stretches out beside me, watching me with interest and his tail wagging steadily. "I would have come back earlier, but I had to do a few things first," I say, and begin telling him everything. My father is not a very expressive man, and seems to go about life with a permanent smile tickling the corners of his mouth and tugging at his eyes. But at my story, he smiles and laughs outright, and seems to enjoy it as much as if he had been there himself.

"You've been gathering an army? You? Maker's breath, Daen, that's incredible."

"I haven't been alone, thank Andraste," I reply. "I don't think things would have gone nearly as well without the others there, especially Alistair. I still feel like I've lived a lifetime in the past year! But there's so much out there, Dad, so much to see and learn and do. Having to fight darkspawn is worth it."

He smiles at my words. "You never were suited for the alienage life."

"Who is?" I counter.

"Hah. But you, Daen—every time you went up the _vhenedhal_, it was like you were trying to climb away from here, up into the clouds. I thought I could make you settle down with Nesiara—I don't blame you for anything that happened that day; I know you only did what you thought was right—but it was such a unique way to leave. Very you. Your mother would have been proud."

"I don't think it would have worked between Nesiara and me, anyway," I remark before I can stop myself.

He looks at me strangely, his hands still. "What do you mean by that?"

Maker take my heedless tongue. "Nothing," I lie. This has never worked on my father and I should not have even tried.

"Daen, do you have something to tell me?"

"Dad, I..." I look down and scrub harder, staring at my watery reflection as it appears and disappears beneath my fist. "Well, it was a busy year. I...met someone."

"Really?" He is actually excited. "Who? Is it...another Warden? No, it can't be, it's just you and that Alistair lad."

I swallow and stand. Why am I so afraid? I am nothing but in love with Zevran. I am not ashamed to say this to my father, of all people, but I am terrified of what will happen when the words have left my mouth.

Soris heaves his bulk up and resettles it so that it is covering both of my feet, practically cutting off the circulation to my toes. He looks up at me, his head resting on his forepaws, and I know it is his way of seeing if I am all right.

"I'm trying to remember who else of your friends I met...er, was it the elderly mage—"

"Zevran," I blurt, turning around. "His name's Zevran. He helped me rescue you from the Tevinter mage." And he left me behind here, and I do not know if there is anything left between us still.

Dad blinks slowly. "The Antivan?"

"Yes. Him."

"Him," he repeats. He seems to be absorbing this word, but like the bit of cloth in his hand, he has already reached his limit, and the next thoughts come out in dribbles. "I never...is this because of the humans? But I thought we talked—or was it because of—when Adaia was killed—"

"No, Dad," I say, my reply to everything he asks, and I cannot keep the heartbreak out of my voice.

He does not look at me, and cannot seem to rip his gaze from his hands, as if his head suddenly weighs five times more than usual. "You've had a long day, son," he says. "Go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

What else can I do? I wash my face and run the shredded end of a stick over my teeth before climbing into bed. I lie between familiar threadbare sheets and seven layers of patched blankets each as thick as the sheets themselves, and put my head down on the flour sack filled with stale beans I grew up using as a pillow. Soris is too big and heavy for the bed, so he stretches himself out alongside it on the floor. I reach down and trail my fingers through his short fur, inhale the must below my head and press my cheek into the woven threads of the sack, knowing full well that I will wake up in the morning with the crisscross stamped into my skin as I had for so many years. Years that are a lifetime ago.

Why did I waste a precious night of wheat blond hair and musky bronze skin for this, alone in my childhood bed?

I think that I will not sleep, but I do, although I do not know when. Familiarity wins over wishes, and I fade into a gray world, where a dragon's eye flashes awake and stares me down as it turns the _vhenedhal_ into a raging inferno. I burn with the _vhenedhal_, high in its boughs, and I cannot scream.

Between the flames, I think I feel a familiar hand, dry with age and as cool as snow, running across my forehead. Somehow it has also found the new scars on my body, and it touches all of them, everything that I have accumulated ever since I became a Warden and before Wynne came and could heal things away without leaving even a memory behind: The darkspawn bolt scars from the Tower of Ishal, the tear in my side where a werewolf had caught me, bandit swordmarks on my shoulder, the teeth of a trap encircling my forearm, marks everywhere from darkspawn blades and claws. And the open cuts and bruises from Ser Cauthrien's ambush and Fort Drakon, all of which I am still hiding from Wynne. I can sense that the hand is concerned with these especially and circles them with a hesitant touch. _It's okay, I'm fine_, I try to say, and will myself to grab it with my own. But it disappears before I can force my body to move and the flames leap over my head as darkspawn laugh all around me.

I sit up with a start. It is morning, and sunlight leaks pale and weak through the half-shuttered front window. If sunlight can touch us, then I have overslept. It is a wonder Alistair is not pounding at the front door. My stomach growls and I stare down at my lap and realize that I have kicked all of my blankets off in my sleep. I can no longer feel the cold the way I had before I became a Warden, but insensitivity to extreme temperatures does not protect me from a stiff neck. The bean sack was a kingly pillow when I was young, but it was too tall and unyielding for me now. Warden camp pillows have made me soft, I suppose.

A gentle cough draws my attention.

Dad sits at the square dining table, a chipped mug in his hand and his worn pair of spectacles on his nose, a full plate of food and another mug set across from him. Something long and slender, securely wrapped in a length of thick brown canvas, lies by his forearm. Soris pants at his feet, himself large enough to pick the food off of the table on his own but some mabari sense of etiquette making him wait for a handout instead.

Dad looks at me over the rusty upper rim of his spectacles. "I've already been to see Lady Efana. She excused me for today, after I explained what happened." He nods at the plate. "Your breakfast."

I duck my head. It would be difficult to leave now, late or no. "Thanks," I say, and swing my legs out of bed, but do not get up. I need the moment to gather myself. A giant brown dog head suddenly obstructs my view of the floor. Soris is as heavy as a bag of bricks covered in felt but I still rest my cheek on his forehead and give him a good scratch behind the ears. His stubby tail waves erratically and he puts his paws on either side of me, hoisting his body up to cover my face with his tongue. Maker, it's like rubbing my face on a wet rock.

"Did you have one of those Grey Warden dreams?" Dad asks. I can see him watching me over Soris's shoulder. His face is unreadable to me today. I am sure that is a bad sign. "You were thrashing about like a demon. I tried to put the blankets back on you, but you kept scraping them off."

"I'm sorry," I say. "Soris, _down_."

Soris drops away from me and I stand, shaking prickles from my legs. He walks me to the table and sits on his haunches on the side between Dad and me, his head still high enough to let him rest his chin on the tabletop. This means that a good third of the table is covered by mabari, and I sigh and move the plate to the side so that it does not meet the inevitable puddle of drool.

Breakfast is the same old bread and other rations that Dad gets from his employer that I grew up on. The plate seems very full today, though. I remember talking about the Grey Warden appetite yesterday and wonder for a sinking moment if he has given me his share because of it.

"I was worried," Dad says suddenly before I can ask.

I do not remember what he is referring to at first, but apologize anyway. "I'm sorry—"

"I was worried that it was because of me."

"I—what?"

"The...thing with the...your Antivan." He looks uncomfortable and seems to decide to change the topic. "I don't know what you've been through in the past year. I thought I shouldn't ask. You've always been your mother's child; you thrive on being...wild, and strong. On being you, no matter how much it scares me."

I know what he is referring to and swallow an uncomfortable lump in my throat.

He puts his mug down with a gentle _thump_. "Your blankets weren't the only things that you managed to throw off last night," he says with a wry twist of his mouth. "I at least got your clothes back on. I hope that isn't a regular occurrence when you're traveling with your friends."

I laugh weakly. "No, that's new." I am in the middle of putting a piece of bread into my mouth when I realize what the hand I thought I had only dreamed meant. "Uh, Dad, did you see—"

He peers at me over his spectacles again. It is the look I always used to get when I did something to make Mother upset. "I thought your mother taught you how to dodge."

"She did. But she didn't share any tips about darkspawn," I say, fidgeting in my seat. I suppose Zevran is not the only one who knows how to make me feel like I'm twelve again.

"I thought you have mages traveling with you?"

"Morrigan doesn't really specialize in healing magic. She can close most, but she can't heal major wounds past scarring. Most of the scars I have on me are from before we met Wynne. Wynne's the older mage—she's the healer."

He nods. "She's a good woman. What about the other ones that haven't healed? And the bruises? Are mages not able to do something about those?"

"I...I got those pretty recently. Wynne wasn't around when I got them and I...just haven't been able to see her yet."

"She wasn't around?" He peers again.

I squirm. "Well, I was sort of on my own for a little bit."

He picks his mug up. "Eat. And tell me."

"There isn't much to tell," I say, chewing on a mouthful of hard bread. My stomach complains again, and it takes everything I have not to just stuff my mouth with food.

He just shrugs. "Then tell what you have to tell."

Dad nods the entire time, even when I confess to destroying our chances of sneaking our way through the Arl of Denerim's estate to find the Queen, and even when I tell him how I made my way out of Fort Drakon. I leave out the parts about recognizing some of the guards and how I got out of the cell, thinking that it is enough that I am already admitting to killing more humans than I can count on both hands. A part of me wonders at his acceptance. Maybe he has come to expect that his son would become a cold-blooded murderer, after Bann Vaughan and the blood mage.

"Alistair and Morrigan met me at the entrance to Fort Drakon. They had decided to come get me themselves. And they took me back to Arl Eamon's, and...that's it," I finally conclude.

Dad has retrieved the dented old teakettle he has always used and refills his cup with tea. He offers me a cup, but I refuse politely. In the wintertime, as it is now, we are already using our kindling to heat the house and it is a simple matter to heat a pot from the stove at the same time. When the weather warms, we have no kindling to waste, and he makes his tea by leaving the kettle out under the sun. Either way, the tea tastes terrible and I have never been able to get a handle on even tolerating the stuff.

The questions he has for me are not the ones I expected. "Why didn't the Antivan stop you in the Arl's estate? And shouldn't he have come to help you out of Fort Drakon?"

I fumble on the answers and fill the void with excuses. "You don't know him, Dad. Zev's...he used to be a Crow." As if that would explain things.

He puts his kettle down with a clatter that makes Soris sit upright, his ears raised. "I don't care if he used to be the Queen of Antiva!" He shakes his head, his vehemence surprising me. "Daen, this...relationship of yours worries me."

"I should have told you earlier about me, Dad, I'm sorry—"

"So you like boys. _That _doesn't worry me. It'll set the alienage on fire with gossip and you're not going to like most of it, but once they calm down it'll probably just give your aunts and uncles a reason to reminisce about Adaia and all the heart attacks _she_ gave them. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did last night; I was surprised, and I'm sorry." He takes his spectacles off and lays them on the table. "But the Antivan—he worries me."

I do not understand. I am elated at first, my shoulders suddenly lighter and free; with the last sentence, the burden settles back into place. "I...why?"

"Do I need to explain this?" Dad sighs. "Son, I know what falling in love does to you, especially when you're young. Sometimes it makes you not want to see things about the other person that everyone else does."

"Hah." I finger a crust and place it at the corner of the table, where it is quickly covered by a giant pink tongue and disappears behind sharp teeth. "Wynne gave me this talk already. Grey Warden duty, no distractions—"

"He's a Crow. I heard him laugh yesterday over some poor girl breaking her neck and saving him the trouble of killing her himself. Crows are not a good people, Daen. They kill for a living."

"So do I."

"You kill darkspawn for something higher. The humans—that was one thing, but you do not live to kill humans. You live to bring balance to the world, to protect the country and its people. Crows kill because they get paid to do it; they have no sense of duty beyond what they need to do to get their money. Do you really see a future for yourself with someone like that?"

"He isn't a Crow anymore!"

"And? Do you really think he's just...forgotten everything he's learned from being one, just because he doesn't wear their feathers anymore?"

If he was Alistair, I would have punched him in the jaw by now. He is my father, and I still must curl my fists on my lap under the table, grabbing up folds of my shirt to keep my hands occupied.

"Your mother and I—I just want you to be happy. And your mother did, too. We want you to be with someone who can give you everything you want and need, who you can grow old with and be together with—"

"Like you and Mother?"

"Don't do that, Daen. We had an arranged marriage, just like everyone else, and we were lucky that we fit so well together. If your mother hadn't—" He stops and draws a breath. "That's why I chose Nesiara for you. She's a smart girl, and she would give the right boy a lifetime of happiness. That's the kind of person you should be with—not this...Antivan."

"He _does_ make me happy, Dad." Or did, I think, and for a moment I am lost in the memories I had before yesterday at the gates of the alienage.

"But for how long?" he counters.

"You don't understand." I am babbling, but if I cannot be honest with my own father in this, I do not know who else I can say it to. "I don't _have_ a 'how long.' I don't know...I don't know when I will die. I'm a Grey Warden during a Blight; it could happen tomorrow for all I know. And even if I survive the Blight, I...there's something called a Calling that all Wardens go on eventually. Twenty, thirty years from now, the dreams are going to get worse. A lot worse. And when that happens, it means that it's time for me to go to the Deep Roads. And I'm going to kill as many darkspawn as I can there until they kill me."

His face has gone still again. I have not seen that look in his eyes since Mother died. "But that means you could die before you're even as old as I am right now." He looks down at the tabletop, closing his eyes. "Or as old as your mother. I suppose there had to have been a trade-off to everything you've gained."

"'All things in this world are finite,'" I say softly.

"'What one man gains, another has lost,'" he replies. "I didn't know you actually paid attention to the Chant. I thought that was another hopeless cause with you, after the reading and writing lessons."

I smile wryly. "You taught me enough. I've worked through a few verses here and there. And walked by more Chanters than I can count on one hand. Did you know there used to be a verse about an elf?"

"Oh?" He smiles, too, but does not inquire further.

"A Dalish elf told me about it. I think it might be one of the Dissonant Verses. Shartan freed the elves from the Tevinter Imperium..." I stumble on my words.

Soris whines, and I push another scrap of bread towards him. He ignores it and stares up at me, his eyes huge and watery. I scratch him behind the ears, and pick up another crust of bread and chew.

"So, the Antivan—I assume things have progressed past the holding hands stage?"

I nearly cough a lump of dough up onto the table. There had not really been a holding hands stage with Zevran, but I cannot tell my own father that. "Uh. Yes."

He looks like he is about to cough something up, too. "And, uh...how is...that...I mean, does he take care of you?"

I want to laugh, but I love him too much to do that to him. "We...watch out for each other." I wish I could smile. "But we...had an argument, I guess. Yesterday. He kept saying things about the alienage that I know aren't true." I close my eyes. "So I told him some things. And he left."

"Everyone fights. Your mother and I had quite a few rows of our own. She always won, of course."

"I don't know who won with this one, Dad. I don't think we've ever had an argument like this before. And it was bad. I thought...I thought I didn't know who he was while he was saying those things." I laugh bitterly. "He didn't know who I was, either. I guess...we didn't know each other that well to begin with. But whenever I'm with him, I just don't want to know. And I don't want him to know about me, either. Things feel so different, so...so much like everything just...made sense. If he knew...if he knew what I was really like...I was afraid that it would all be gone."

"Or if you knew what _he_ was really like?"

I shake my head. "No, I...I've asked him about his past. He was sold to the Crows when he was seven, and it's been nothing but struggling to stay alive since. There are some things he won't tell me, but I know enough. His past comes out in the way he approaches things. A lot of what he said had to have been part of it. He...hides, behind all of the laughing and joking." I stuff another crust into my mouth, chew, and swallow. "But the hiding is what terrifies me. I'm scared that one day he is going to tell me that it's time for him to leave me behind, and that I'll have no warning until the moment it happens."

Dad studies me calmly, his dark eyes sharp against his pale hair. "What else do you know about this Crow?"

"I know that, despite all of that, I love him," I say, and look out of the window. "The sun's getting high. I should get going before Alistair comes looking for me."

Dad and Soris both rise when I do and follow me to the door. I look back at my father with one hand on the doorknob and my mabari panting at my side. He is so skinny and pale, and looks like he will blow over in a single good gust of wind.

And then he inhales sharply and visibly gathers himself with that single breath, and with that bit of air he becomes the father whose knees I would hug when he came home, while he ruffled my hair and kissed my mother over my head. "I need to tell you one more thing, Daen."

I straighten automatically and release the doorknob to face him squarely.

"There's one thing that you need to understand about fathers: No matter how old their son gets, a part of them is always going to see them as the skinny little kid who kept coming home with scraped hands and knees from climbing the _vhenedhal_ and made their mother want to scream because he refused to eat beets." He sighs. "That's how I'll always see you. But that isn't the way everyone else in the alienage sees you, or anyone else in Denerim—or even the entire country. They see a Grey Warden with the future of the country on his shoulders.

"I've heard it everywhere this morning. The city is alive with talk about you and your friend Alistair. They say you're the only ones who can end the Blight. The Grey Wardens are the only hope for Ferelden's survival...and one of them is my own son. It's...hard to believe."

"I think we're really more symbolic than anything else, Dad."

"Regardless—you're their hope, Daen. Your aunties and uncles and cousins, everyone down to even the babies—they all think you're going to mean something for elves, that you're going to help equalize us with humans. I have no way of knowing whether that is a rational belief or not, but the fact of the matter is that you are the only elf in the entire country and in our entire living memory who is possibly poised to someday do exactly that."

I study the floor. "The thought...has crossed my mind," I admit. How could it not? After I found out about Alistair, it was the first thing I thought of once I had cooled down. Alistair on the throne did not only mean a way out of the Blight—it could mean a way out for my family once the Blight was over, too.

"Oh, Daen." A hand rests on my hair, the same place it used to fall whenever I came home with skinned knees and my cheeks fat with stubbornness while Soris wailed that I had hit him, even though he had deserved it. Soris was a crybaby, but I never was. Not when we were six, not when I was thirteen—nothing came from my eyes until I was eighteen and holding my mother's corpse in my arms as I knelt in the mud by the alienage's rear gates. Dad was pulled there eventually, dragged straight from work by the children who had found us first. There had been no hands on my head that day—just one on my shoulder, while the other clutched Mother's hand to his bowed forehead and his back shook like a tree branch in the wind.

The hand then had been heavy and gripped my shoulder until it hurt. Today, it is light, touching me as if I am about to disappear beneath its palm. "Have you heard this verse before in your travels? 'The one who is unshaken by the darkness of the world shall know true peace'?"

"I think so," I say.

"I have always thought of your mother when I read those words. Daen, I see you covered in all of those scars, and I...Maker help me, I wish Adaia was here. You are so much like her, and I become so scared for you." He holds out the wrapped bundle he had had on the table beside him. "Here. It's time for you to take it."

I unwrap the rough canvas and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of a familiar glossy length between the folds. "This is Mother's."

"Fang, she called it, like it was her pet dog. Adaia said it was more like a wolf than a dog, though. She received it from her mother, who was Dalish, and her mother received it from her mother before her. It had been in her family for a long time, and she had always intended to give it to you." Dad smiles like a lovesick boy. "It was all the dowry she had, although between you and me, I would have married her even if she brought nothing at all. I'm giving this to you now, but I want you to promise me one thing."

I feel my eyes burn as I hold the dagger I had last seen in my mother's dead hands. She had trained me with Fang, and the hilt had felt so much larger and the blade so much heavier when I was younger. Now, it feels as light as a cloud, as though it is an extension of my arm itself. "Anything, Dad."

"Don't let anything get the better of you." He clasps my head between his hands, lifting my chin so that I must stare into my eyes. "You've always had a sense of who you were, even when the way this blighted alienage is tried to rip it away from you. I want you to remember that. No matter what you do or what choices you have to make from here on out—don't lose who you are. You are Daen Tabris, Adaia and Cyrion Tabris' only son, and the child of a father who knows you will do nothing but make him proud, as long as you never forget who you are. Promise me this."

I hold his wrinkled hands between mine and meet his gaze with all of the steel I can muster. "I promise."

He touches his forehead to mine. "Visit when you can, son. I miss you."

I close my eyes. "I miss you, too, Dad."

More than I can say.

* * *

_Chant of Light verses referenced:_

_Transfigurations 1:5  
All things in this world are finite._  
_What one man gains, another has lost._  
_Those who steal from their brothers and sisters_  
_Do harm to their livelihood and to their peace of mind._  
_Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart.  
_

_Transfigurations 10:1_  
_The one who repents, who has faith,_  
_Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_  
_She shall know true peace._

_Until next time. -K_


	7. Chapter 7

_Note__: **Trigger warning** for rape._

* * *

CHAPTER 7

I walk back to Eamon's estate through a back alley, my fingertips trailing on Soris's head as he trots beside me. It is a shortcut, but the kind that I avoided as a youth; no elf risks the types of people that skulk in these alleys unless he is stupid, confident, or looking for a fight. In any case, an elf alone is guaranteed to wind up dead if he is lucky or a slave if he is not. I still would not risk the alleyways alone now, even as a Grey Warden, but I have Soris beside me today, and I know that he is enough to keep the bandits and kidnappers far from us. And I need some of the isolation that the alleys and their high walls provide.

In the wintertime, the back alleys see little sunlight and it is as if the snow that has long since left the open areas of Denerim has fled into the safety of the shadows here instead. I pass grey drifts piled up to the level of my head and find myself sunk up to my knee twice, and cannot pull myself out without Soris's help. He obliges every time without rolling his eyes once or questioning why we are taking this path, which I surely would have gotten several times from Alistair or Morrigan. Another reason why I am glad it is Soris who is with me now.

Soris keeps stopping to peer into the hovels and lean-tos that we walk past, but if he finds anyone within, they are too intimidated by his drooling mabari jaws to come out or say anything. I let him scout, as it works off his energy and keeps him from attempting to wrestle with me, stopping a few paces ahead to wait for him to return to my side.

He is shoulders deep inside a shack that looks to have been abandoned now, and I brush some snow off of some nearby steps and take a seat. The place we have stopped at is one of the rare small clearings in the labyrinth behind houses, where I would imagine children would play if they were not holed up inside sipping on hot broth next to a fire. I glance at Soris's stubby tail and see a snowman with a lopsided coal smile and button eyes leaning against the wall next to him, and cannot help but smile. It looks exactly like the snowmen I used to build with Shianni and Soris when we were children—too bottom heavy, and only two balls high because we were too short to stack anything higher. Ours had eyes and teeth made of rocks or mud, though, and they were always streaked grey and brown rather than the gentle dove white color of the fellow before me.

I take Fang from its sheathe while I wait for Soris and turn the hard dragonbone blade in my hands. It has been a long time since I held it unsheathed like this, and it is the first time that I hold it alone and with no other hands to guide me. I remember my mother with her hands over mine on the hilt, showing me the proper way to keep my grip and how to change it depending on how I intended to strike. My current style favors using the dagger in my off hand to deflect blows, but she trained me with the intent to use Fang as the only weapon we had. And, as far as I know, it _was_ the only weapon we had. Mother never went without it, even when she was at home sewing before the fire. I had grown up seeing its glossy pommel catch the firelight in the waistband of her skirt. I once asked her why she carried it all the time, and she teasingly told me that it was like her other child—my older brother, she said.

And Fang and I had brought about her death. It is fitting that we brothers leave the alienage together at last.

Soris barks suddenly, and I rise to my feet, Fang at the ready. He stands at attention in the doorway of the shack, his eyes alert on something behind me. I whirl and jump off of the steps, backing away from the human that has appeared on silent feet at the top of the stairs. He looks like a wolf—scruffy, lean, and hungry, and made of whipcord beneath skin as weather-beaten as Zevran's. His armor is too good to belong to a common mercenary, and strangely tailored in a way that I do not associate with Ferelden handiwork. His accent, however, sounds like he walked straight out of the deepest parts of the Bannorn.

"Greetings, oh mighty Grey Warden," he drawls, leaning forward on one leg. "The Crows send their regards once again."

"Master Ignacio implied otherwise," I say, slowly stepping backward. Soris's bulk meets my outstretched hand and he crouches at my side, growling.

"Master Ignacio promised no further contracts on the Wardens and no more." The man grins. "But maybe you can help me, little Warden. I'm here for Zevran. Where is he?"

It was true that Master Ignacio's promise had only extended to Alistair and me. He had made no guarantee that we would not fall for reasons other than a contract on our own heads. I put a hand on Soris's back as his growling crescendos. "Zevran?" I ask casually. "Zevran who?"

He scoffs. "They don't teach you Wardens how to lie, do they? I know he's traveling with you. Doing more than traveling, too, sounds like." The man rubs his chin and leers, and my shoulders stiffen below his gaze. "One thing I haven't missed about Ferelden—how uptight it is. Don't seem fair that you and Zev go carrying on like nothing's the matter though, do it? Bet that Arl of yours is wearing a hole in his rug wondering how to deal with you two. But I'd be more than happy to take Zev off of your hands, Warden."

"That's not happening."

He shrugs. "Well, it was worth a shot. Of course, half of Ferelden's probably already got you pegged fornicating Zev, little elf." He says the last two words with a suggestive leer and a lick of his lips that chills me to the bone. "He's a talented one, isn't he? Not the type that'd let himself be tied down for long. You must have a bit of talent yourself, too, elf."

The way he looks at me makes me tighten my grip on Fang and draw Starfang before I realize it. "That's really none of your business," I reply stiffly.

"Oh, but it is." He straightens, crossing his arms over his chest. The leer never leaves. "Like I said, I'm here for Zev. Tell me where he is."

"You'll have to kill me first," I snarl.

"Then I'll just have to take care of you and lure him out myself." He raises a gloved fist in the air and I hear a bowstring tighten behind me while three more men with swords appear at his side. Unlike the Crow, they are dressed like common Ferelden thugs, and look the part, too. "Go on, boys. Keep 'm alive, though. Elves like him'r good for just about one thing. Might as well have some fun before he croaks."

The bowstring releases and I throw myself to the side, rolling back to my feet in the snow. An arrow quivers at the base of the stairway. Soris barks and lunges at the three humans that had joined the first one, and I race to join him. He will not do so well in a close quartered fight against multiple swords.

I barely manage to block a stab aimed at Soris's right flank and my spine shivers with the ring of steel in the air. I hear the bowstring release again too late and gasp as I am punched in my left hip. "Soris, get the archer!" I yell, gritting my teeth as I stagger back. Soris _whuffs_ and dashes away obediently. I glance down quickly and see that the arrow has hit my beltpouch, but luckily gone no deeper. There will be a bruise when this is all through, but I am not bleeding yet. I weave between three blades falling at my head and dance away, my balance wrong for me to slip behind one and dispatch him. But I recover quickly and take advantage of another swing at my shoulders to slip below the man's guard and stick to his back, keeping him between me and the other two.

He snarls at me like Soris and tries to circle back behind me, his friends backing away cautiously and giving him room to maneuver. I slip close in front of him before he can get my back to the other two swords and jab Fang up into the soft part beneath his chin. His arms are too long to block my strike in time, and he falls away with a bloody gurgle. I wrench Fang out of him before he twists it away from me as he falls, and turn to face the other two.

They have not been sitting idle. The moment I turn, one darts forward and grabs the shaft of the arrow still sticking from my beltpouch, digging it deeper into my sore hip. His other hand tosses his sword to the other man, and a muscled arm blocks my strike with Fang. He is using my own trick against me and is far too close for me to swing at him with Starfang, and he is much larger than me and uses his bulk to pin my arms while he blocks the other swordsman from view.

They are better than I had estimated. I twist in the man's arms as he lifts me off the ground. He squeezes suddenly, and Starfang drops from my numb hands. The other man darts in and kicks my sword away, out of my sight and far out of my reach.

I lean my head back as far as it will go just in time to see Soris rip the hapless archer's throat out with his teeth. He turns back to me and begins running back, his eyes black with rage. The second swordsman steps forward, swinging his swords with a skill that frightens me.

"Soris, get help," I gasp as the man's grip tightens. It takes everything I have to hang on to Fang. Soris barks and dodges the twin blades before they can cut into his skull, racing off down a side alley as quickly as his four legs can carry him. Soris would have had too much trouble in this fight, and I know I would not have been able to protect both of us. I just need to survive long enough for the others to get here.

The man's arms are around my elbows and I cannot bend my arm to get Fang into his side like I want to. But he, like me, also does not wear a helmet, and I bash my forehead into his nose. He reels back and releases me, and I fall on my feet in a crouch, gasping for air and trying to shake my disorientation away.

I do not see the Crow until it is too late. I look up as a shadow passes over my face and cannot block the punch to my jaw in time. Snow explodes around my head as I fall into it, my vision black and the world trembling around me. A boot lands squarely on my abdomen and both the air and my cry are knocked out of me with the blow. A hand grabs the front of my armor and hauls me to my feet, and another punch wrenches my head on my neck while my nose goes numb and flows hot with blood. I gag and lift Fang. A vice-like grip on my hand attempts to wrest Fang away from me.

"No," I choke out, and scream as the hand tightens and nearly breaks my fingers. Fang falls away and my hand grabs at air, empty and helpless. I am set on the ground and whipped around, and gasp as my arm is twisted behind my back until it is touching my shoulderblade. Another arm wraps around my waist and lifts me, and I blink through tears of pain as I am half-carried, half-dragged into the hut that Soris had been investigating earlier. The two other swordsmen shut the door behind them, and we enter darkness barely punctuated by a fire flickering weakly against the far wall.

The hut is small, damp, and smells strongly of mold on the inside. It is wooden from floor to ceiling and seems to lean to the side, although I cannot tell if this is due to the construction or my own precarious grasp of my surroundings. It looks like it is used as a playhouse for children; wooden blocks and dolls are scattered on the floor, and the furnishings are bare and built to a child's height, small even for me. The only adult human-sized furniture are a wooden table and matching chair set next to the door behind me.

I kick the Crow holding me in the shins, and he swears but does not release me as my boot connects.

"Pretty little elf. Smaller than a girl, even," the Crow sneers, and twists the arm he holds. I see stars and he lets me collapse, following me to the floor. "And a bit of a scrapper, aren't you? Guess the guards in Denerim aren't that good at teaching their elves their place. Either that or someone isn't a very good student." He leans close until I can smell the fish and strange spices on his breath. "You know, Zev and me, we shared many an elf between us back in the day. He won't mind if I take a bit of you with me this time, eh? For old time's sake."

Fingers twine into my hair and draw my head back, as far as my neck will allow. My free hand scrabbles at the fist until another grabs my wrist and slams it into the ground. Weight settles onto my back, a knee keeping my twisted arm pinned into place, and the hand in my hair wrenches my head around. Narrow lips close around my ear and a tongue caresses me almost tenderly before teeth bite down.

I will not say a thing; I swear I will not let anything escape my lips. That is not my voice, gagging and choking on my tongue. That is not my blood, draining hot on my face. This is not my body, the traitor that will not stay still when I tell it to, twitching instead to the impulses of an amateur puppeteer's commands, limbs digging at the ground where they can. I do not know who owns any of it, but I know that it is not me.

"What a scream," the fish voice drawls. "You got a magical voice, Warden. Is that why he likes you? Or do you have other charms I don't know about yet?"

_Yet_—blessed Andraste and the Maker, not yet. That word has always meant a promise fulfilled. I jerk my head down and twist with my entire body, ripping my hair and wrenching my arm and not caring in the slightest. Everything is red and time makes no sense. I need to get away, I need space, I need to breathe—

I come to with my face slammed into the table by the door, splinters digging into my cheek and a fist in my hair again and my arms crossed as far as they will go and pinned below me. My mouth is salty and warm. It tastes like I bit into the belly of a fish while it was still alive, and the ghost of its squirming flesh lingers on my tongue. My legs dangle and my toes scrape at the ground without finding purchase, and something drives into my hips from behind, sending a wave of numbing electricity through my legs. A whine escapes between my lips. "Bugger nearly got away," the Crow snarls. "What am I paying you lot for, anyway?"

"He kicked me in me balls and tore Jarven's gullet straight outta his neck, he did," another voice cries out, high with pained indignation. "You better give it to 'im good, Taliesen. I dunno what I'll tell our mum if I can't at least say 'is murderer got what was comin' to 'im."

I start to laugh. I cannot stop. Even mercenaries have mothers and brothers. Who knew?

"Listen to that. Sounds like he's asking for it. We'll avenge both your brother and your balls, Daven, don't you worry." I hear the familiar jingle of a belt buckle, and my laughter dies into a strangled giggle as I close my eyes.

I wonder how long it has been since I have been between a table and a human like this, and count the months and days off in my head. Numbers are comforting. They tell me where I have been, how long since I have changed. Yes, maybe almost two years by now. Two years of peace and the last few months of the past year filled with a different kind of touch, with hands that asked me if I was ready as they held me between them and I spoke my reply into a taut forearm. I try to remember those moments now, try to let them fill me before my mind makes sense of the ripping pain that jabs with a methodical purpose into me. And it works. It focuses me and takes me away at the same time. I rise free, and pity the thing of flesh and blood that I stand apart from, watching it jerk and dig splinters into its own fingernails, silent but for a few wet grunts that force their way up its throat. The body has survived this much before. The mind sits back, and waits.

There is always a moment, one brief moment that I have ticked off and noted in the back of my head, although I have never taken advantage of it. At some point, the weight on me will shift and begin to lift. And when it does, I am ready for it.

My hands have been busy straining downward, towards the hilt of a dagger pointing so close towards me, practically inviting me to take it from Taliesen's belt. I make a final grab and the smooth leather-bound handle is in my palm. My fingers curl around it and when the weight lifts, I lurch sideways, pulling the dagger free from its sheath as I tumble to the ground. I hear Taliesen curse and fumble with his pants. I stab the dagger two-handed straight into his bare upper thigh, just outside of the bone. He howls and tries to kick me, and I pull the dagger free and scoot away.

I have to take a moment to get my own pants back up around my hips, and forego any hope of fixing my belt completely. Luckily I had finally purchased a better-fitting pair when we first arrived in Denerim, and my belt was no longer as necessary as it used to be. I put the dagger straight through the toe of Daven's boot, and as he hops around, howling, I roll backwards until I am standing behind him, pulling my belt free from its loops as I go. This I whip around his neck, drawing the free end of the belt through the buckle and pulling as tight as I can until I have him strung before me like a dog on a short leash.

He gags and chokes as I pull him backwards and clutches at his throat. This much will not kill him for a while and I do not have the right leverage or strength to snap his neck immediately. But the belt helps me to maneuver him in place between Taliesen and me, and I grab Daven's dagger from his belt and point it at Taliesen, who has finished fixing his pants and stands staring at me, his leg bleeding, his eyes bright and feral, and his hand on the sword hilt at his back.

"You're a very bad elf, aren't you," he says.

I have heard those words before. I should be used to them by now. I am strong; I am armed. I am a Grey Warden.

And my blood still curdles, and a shrill voice cries in my head: Get away before he can touch you again.

I spare a quick glance outside the window and see Starfang's blue-lit blade shining in a snowdrift by the far wall.

I do not like to throw my weapons away. Zevran has no qualms about it, but he has had more practice and has never lost a dagger. I try to remember what he said about assessing the balance and growl in frustration. I do not have the skill or arm strength to risk chancing it, and Taliesen is coming towards me and I need to move. Now.

So I stab Daven in the side, twisting the dagger to make sure it does some good damage. Stupid man was not wearing leather good enough to stop a needle, much less his own dagger. As Daven sways, I kick him forward; he is too disoriented to stop himself from lurching where I push him, and he falls straight towards Taliesen, who jumps back to avoid getting caught below his lackey's body.

Now I throw the dagger. Not at Taliesen, who would have just dodged it, but at the window—a thin pane of glass that looks like it is about to break anyway. I am lucky that the dagger hits with its heavy pommel first. The glass shatters and the hole is not nearly big enough for me to get through without cutting myself, but I run for it anyway and tuck myself as small as possible on the way through, protecting my face and neck with my gloved and armored arms as I sail through. I feel something cool touch my forehead along the way, as quick as if someone had slid the tip of an icicle across it.

The snow is there to catch me as I fall, the softness and the cold a relief that wakes me, and I roll a few revolutions before getting my legs back underneath me. Starfang waits only a hundred feet away, and I lock on to it and stumble forward. I either reach Starfang first or Taliesen reaches me.

When I feel something grab around my calf and pull me to the ground, I raise my arms instinctively in a useless attempt at shielding myself from Taliesen's sword. I do not know how he made it out so quickly, but I do not know what else could have gotten hold of my leg. But the sword does not fall, and my leg begins to throb with pain as the hand fastened to it does not let go.

I look down and see the teeth of a trap clamped firmly around my calf. How did I not see it? It is just chance that its teeth have gotten caught on the reinforced top three inches of my boot; the trap was made to catch and disable a human's shin, and its jaws rise much higher on my shorter elven legs. It still probably could have broken bones if my boot had not been in the way.

But this does not change the fact that I cannot run. Or that Starfang is still out of reach.

The door to the hut bangs open, and my heart almost stops in my chest. Taliesen emerges, the blood from his thigh slashing his pants with ribbons of darkness, the dagger I had left in Daven's boot in his hand and trailing dots of red in the snow. Stupid, stupid. I should not have stabbed him before he put his pants on; it will be harder for him to bleed out with the leather adhering to the wound. I sit up and struggle with the teeth of the trap, my attention split between watching Taliesen as he approaches and getting my fingers around the jaws to pry them apart. Finally I stop trying to free myself and stumble towards Starfang, the trap dragging my leg behind me until I fall and have to crawl instead. It is so far away, and seems to get further no matter how much I crawl. And he comes closer, like a crow descending on carrion, laughing as I strain, his lips drawn back thin and grim.

I have never experienced so much silence in Denerim before, not even when it falls around the alienage's shoulders while we huddle together below. Snow eats sound, as it always has, but my ears cannot even hear Taliesen's laughter now. My head shivers like it did when an abomination exploded behind a door I leaned against in the Circle Tower. I think I might be crying in frustration as I drag myself forward on my belly, so agonizingly slow, but if I am, the snow has taken even that sound from me, too. I wonder how much further I can crawl before I feel Taliesen's dagger in my side.

And a dog barks in my ear.

Soris?

His massive bulk covers mine, and he crouches low, growling and snarling, his fur bristling over every inch of him. Taliesen eyes him apprehensively and raises his sword.

"Soris, no," I croak, and try to push him away. He is too heavy. I would do better moving a boulder twice my size. "You were supposed to get help."

"And that is what he got," a honeyed voice drawls above me, and I look up and see something impossible slinking forward down a stairway, so golden and beautiful, his hair a splash of sunlight against the white all around us. I blink and almost see spots. It is like seeing a vision in the Fade—too bright to be real, too real to be anything but. And the only thing that I truly want to see.

Stupid dog. Out of all of my companions, he gets the one this entire ambush was meant for. And the one I had hoped to see the most. I put a hand on Soris's flank; he stops growling to lick my cheek, but his muscles do not lose their stiff tension. My eyes sting as I glance back up at Zevran.

Stupid, stupid dog. And always smarter than I give him credit for.

"You should not have come, Taliesen," Zevran says. He stops a few steps shy of the ground.

"Zevran." Taliesen's voice turns cajoling, sweet enough to make me nauseous. "You're alive. I was getting worried for a minute there."

"You never did get the trick of telling a good lie, Taliesen," Zevran replies. "What brings you to Ferelden?"

"You, of course. Our Master said you'd gone rogue—couldn't believe it myself, but if it was true, then of course I had to be the one to bring you in. The bid cost me a few more silvers than I'd like, but it was worth it."

I glance behind me. Starfang is still a few feet away, much closer now that my head is clear of panic. "Soris," I murmur, "get Starfang." He _whuffs_ and trots away. While he is gone, I grab the trap's jaws, ignoring where its teeth bite my fingers, and put all of my strength into forcing the mouth open. I throw the steel contraption to the side once I am free, and gather my breath waiting for Soris to return.

Soris returns shortly with Starfang clenched between his teeth. I take it by the hilt, ignoring the drool that has dripped along it, and use Soris's collar on one side and Starfang planted tip down on the other as leverage to haul myself upright and to my feet. My leg feels like it is on fire, the flames running straight up to the pit of my stomach and collecting in a tight ball at the small of my back, but I refuse to simply lie there while this is happening. I shoulder Starfang and gather myself.

"Heard you've been having some fun with the elf. Is that what keeps you here?"

"The Wardens are inconsequential, the elf most of all. I stay to repay a favor and to fight a Blight." Zevran shrugs. "There are not many more glorious ways to die."

"Who's the bad liar now, Zev?" Taliesen laughs. "I've been tracking you. You've lost your way, but you can always come back with me. We'll explain things to the Master; he'll let you back in to the Crows."

"And I'd...have to be dead first," I interrupt. My breathing is more like panting despite my efforts to make them steady. Two sets of eyes flick to me, as if remembering that I am there. It takes everything I have to keep my head upright and my eyes unyielding as I meet Taliesen's brown eyes, which narrow when he sees that I have regained my sword.

"Between you and me, elf, you seem to have your heart set on ending up dead." He smirks. "Or did you prefer it when there was nothing between us at all?"

"Oblivion...take you. Zev doesn't need the Crows anymore," I retort. I am regaining my strength, my head clearing as my rage rises in my chest. I point Starfang at his heart and spit. "And I owe you a sword in your gut."

"You should not have come, Taliesen," Zevran repeats, pacing slowly along the length of the step he stands on. His hands creep to the daggers at his belt. "You were a good friend once, and more. But no longer."

"Gut your friends first before they gut you, eh, Zev?" Taliesen says. "Try to stop me, then."

He darts forward. Soris snarls, springing forward to meet the man halfway. His jaws clamp down around Taliesen's thigh, at the same place where I had stabbed him earlier. He cries out but his arm moves forward, and the dagger he holds flies free, straight towards my chest. I know it moves too quickly for me to block it completely, but my body reacts on instinct, straining to angle Starfang into position.

A figure in leather barrels into me from the side, and we fall together. The snow is not quite thick enough to shield my shoulder from the frozen ground below, but I flounder upright, none the worse for the wear other than a slightly jarred arm. I hear the dagger hit the wall behind my head with an empty clatter and fall silent to the snow. I turn to find it, but it is lost in the depths of a snowdrift that rises well above my head.

Zevran crouches over me, one arm extended and the hand empty, the other bent and pulling another stiletto free of his boots. The one that he has already let fly protrudes from Taliesen's arm, above his bicep and where his shoulder and arm meet; the man's arm dangles at his side like a doll's. Soris still clings to Taliesen's thigh, and he punches my dog in the head with his uninjured arm with short, quick blows, trying to dislodge him. He underestimates a mabari's practically iron skull. Soris does not stop growling, nor does he relinquish his grip in the least. His jaws twitch and grind down, and although I can't hear Taliesen's thighbone break, he screams loud enough to satisfy me that it had. Who has the magical scream now? I find myself grinning with sadistic pleasure as I force myself to my feet, raising Starfang once again.

He grabs hold of the stiletto in his arm, yanking it out of him and flipping it around to point its blade directly at Soris's eye. Zevran keeps those stilettos poisoned, and I do not want to wait to see whether any lingers on the blade. "Soris, _release_!"

Soris responds to my command in a split second, letting go of Taliesen and dropping to his belly, effectively ducking the stiletto and avoiding its continuing trajectory by flattening himself as far as he will go into the snow. He is on all four paws again in the next moment, bouncing back and out of Taliesen's reach in a small flurry of uprooted snow. Taliesen staggers backwards, away from Soris, slashing Zevran's stiletto before him just inches short of Soris's muzzle. Soris seems unimpressed, and advances a step with every step back Taliesen takes, head low and ears pinned back, and a growl tickling at the corners of his jaws.

Zevran's second stiletto flies with the softest of thrums through the air. Even so, Taliesen twists aside somehow, staggering and folding to the ground as he turns. Soris lunges before I can tell him to stop, his teeth clamping around Taliesen's raised wrist and snapping it with a hollow _crack_. "Stupid son of a bitch!" Taliesen yells, his cry ragged and raw. He raises his other hand. Too late I see Fang in his fist—I did not see where he had hidden my mother's dagger after he took it from me—and try to warn Soris in time.

Soris must have seen the glint of the blade out of the corner of his eye, because he dances back immediately. But Fang bites above his brow and travels into his cheek, slicing it open; he yelps with surprise and flinches back, wavering on his paws, blood leaking from the side of his face into his eyes and the snow below.

Taliesen is on his knees, staggering forward and lashing out with Fang again, his face a rictus and his eyes cold as a hurlock's. I fly before I can think. I hear footsteps crushing snow behind me and know that Zevran is following. In battle, we move as one. And he likely knows as well as I do that my own faltering strength will not last long beyond protecting Soris from Taliesen.

I whip Starfang in a gleaming arc between Soris and Fang only just in time, starmetal meeting dragonbone in a song that sets my heart racing. I fall to one knee with the strike and electricity runs through my entire body. My arms suddenly cannot support the weight of Starfang in my grasp. It falls to the ground and I follow, gasping for breath as I hit the snow.

Zevran is between Taliesen and me when I look up, his daggers flashing as he brings both down on Taliesen's head. The human has kept his grip on Fang and blocks Zevran's strike in a broad sweep that leaves his chest wide open. I coil and take the opening, sliding around Zevran and driving Starfang's pommel into Taliesen's solar plexus and knocking him back to the ground. Zev darts forward again, snow flying as he kicks away from the ground and aims a blade at Taliesen's heart.

The Crow rocks backward and lashes out with his booted feet. My ears are filled with the crack of leather against bone. Zevran's head snaps backward as the blow connects with his jaw. He collapses and I barely manage to raise Starfang again to deflect the following strike Taliesen aims at Zev's stomach. He sprawls away, thrown off balance by the vibration of blade against blade, and it is my turn to crouch protectively over Zev's body and drive my weapon towards Taliesen's unguarded back.

He rolls away and Starfang bites snow and cold, hard ground. "Andraste's arse!" I snarl. The man refuses to die! Now his boots are aiming at me, and I lean away instinctively, saving my arm but not my fingers as he connects with where I hold Starfang's hilt. Starfang falls from my numb hands and, weaponless, I have no choice but to throw myself at Taliesen, trying to knock him out before he gets on his feet again.

Taliesen tries to put me into a headlock as I rocket forward, but I duck below his arm and come around behind him, getting two solid punches in to his kidneys before he turns to face me again. He grunts with the blows and aims a punch at my face. I duck and go for his solar plexus again, but he is prepared for me and grabs my wrist before I can connect.

In the next breath, I am on my back in the snow and Taliesen's body looms low over mine. Fingers crawl up my shoulders and I realize too late what their target is. They encircle my neck and squeeze, and bright bursts of light explode in front of my eyes as I choke for air.

"Too bad, pretty elf," he grimaces down at me. I scrape at his hands with mine and feel as though my head is swelling to twice its normal size. "I would have liked to play with you a little longer."

If I had the air to spare, I would have spat in his face. But humans always forget that their crotches are comfortably at shin level for me when they have me on my back, and my smaller size tends to make them forget to close the gap between us unless they are this close to me for something else. And I personally knew that Taliesen was not wearing a guard.

I drive both legs up, one after the other in rapid succession. His hands loosen immediately as he blanches and wheezes. I kick him again, this time getting three strikes in, and he grits his teeth as his pupils contract and veins throb like worms in his neck. He jerks suddenly and lets out an oath, and I hear Soris growling somewhere behind him although I cannot see what my mabari is doing. Good boy. I use Taliesen's surprise to break his grip with a strike to his inner elbows. He collapses immediately, and I manage to get my upper body out from below in time, but not anything below my hips. My body screams anew as his full weight lands on me, and I wonder if he did permanent damage earlier, as the pain ripping up through my core is enough to make me go blind for a scant moment.

But only for a moment. I shake my head and when my eyes clear, they fall on something glinting in the snow.

Fang. I do not know when Taliesen lost his grip on my mother's blade. Perhaps it was when I lost Starfang. I cannot question it now.

Fang is just within the reach of the full extent of my arms. There is no hesitation. I snatch the dagger and it feels like it welcomes my touch, fitting snugly into my hand as though it was made for it. I twist just in time for Taliesen to roll onto his side, howling for breath, his calf ragged where Soris continues to savage it through his boot.

I drive Fang into Taliesen's stomach. It bites true, puncturing leather and shirt to drink deeply of the flesh and guts below. Taliesen twitches and I twist the blade, back and forth, urging it deeper and deeper into his abdomen. Shaking hands reach up to clasp the hilt, and I jerk my hands away before they can be covered, and manage to slide my legs out from under Taliesen's spasming body and fly to my feet, staring down at the Crow's pale face.

He looks up at me, his mouth working in a puppet's mindless performance. I stare into his brown eyes and wish that I could twist Fang into him one more time. But to do so would mean touching him again, and I have had enough of his hands.

I cannot help jumping when he speaks. "This'll be you one day, little elf," he chokes out. Blood flows from his lips and he does not stop looking at me, even as his pupils dilate and his eyes begin to dim. "This is what happens to all of Zev's friends in the end. Gut them...before they...gut you." He laughs, and dies just like that, eyes glazed and the corners of his lips twisted into a grimace.

I look down at him, Fang in his stomach and his hands curled stiffly around its blade, and sink to my knees in the snow, as low as I will allow myself to go without falling over completely. Fang protected me as surely as my mother did that day when I was eighteen, and I need the moment to breathe and tell myself that it is over.

Soris wriggles under my arm, and I pat his nose and bury my face into his collar. "Good boy," I mumble into his fur. It prickles at my face and smells overwhelmingly of worn leather and wet dog, with just the faintest touch of clean flowers and snow. One of his eyes is squeezed tight against congealed blood, but the other looks deep into me, reflecting a bloody and pale visage I do not recognize in their glossy black depths. I clean his bloody eye with some snow and manage to scrape enough of the sticky mess away to let him open his eye again.

"Good boy," I repeat, brushing the remnants of snow aside. He whines and nudges my leg with a paw.

Something cold touches the side of my head where the remains of my ear leak thick trails of blood down my face. I jerk away until a hand cups the other side of my head and presses it back into the cold.

"You are not in a good state, Warden," Zevran says. His mouth is bleeding, but I am relieved to see that it looks like his jaw is still intact. He must have leaned away in time. I almost reach out to touch him, but stop myself before my hand does more than twitch on Soris's neck. "Hold the snow to your head. It will help with the bleeding." He waits until I have gathered my fingers around the ball of ice he has put against my ear before speaking again. "Where did it happen?"

I nod towards the gaping maw of the hut I had been dragged into, its mouth still wide open from Taliesen's exit and the broken shards in one eye blinking in the winter sunlight from mine. He leaves my side and enters, and I remain kneeling, my arm wrapped around Soris and holding him as close to me as I can.

Until I stand.

I put a handful of snow in my mouth and spit it back out, stained red with Jarven's blood mixed with my own. I wipe my chin on my forearm and pull Fang from Taliesen's cold grasp. I retrieve Starfang. And I turn, and I begin walking.

Zevran catches up to me when I am well on my way down the alley leading to Eamon's estate, leaning against Soris's head for support as I had only yesterday while walking to my father's house. He holds my belt in one hand and a bundle wrapped inside of a handkerchief in the other, and I see bits of snow dotted with red clinging to its folds. I take this in as a note in my head that I crumple and cast aside, and I keep walking, urging Soris on.

My forehead stings. My neck aches when I move it. My hips are on fire. My legs want nothing more than to give out below me.

I do not want any of this to stay on me.

I need to find Wynne.

* * *

_May be taking a bit of a break to work on the relatively fluffier, happier moments in _Beak_. And the cover. The cover is very WIP. I just couldn't stand staring at the default cover avatar any longer._

_Until next time. -K_


	8. Chapter 8

_Note__: __**Trigger warning**__ for rape._

* * *

CHAPTER 8

I somehow manage to reach Wynne before the others see me, although I do not escape the notice of a few servants, including Nigella. I am sure that means Eamon will be informed of my arrival soon enough. I do not care, as long as Wynne can heal me first.

She is reading in the bedroom I asked for her to have, thankfully by herself. I close the door as I enter. Zevran follows me in, and Soris—the latter I could never drive away and needs healing anyway, and the former—he knows already, I suppose. I cannot really care anymore.

Maker guide me. I am so tired.

She is looking at me when I turn around, her book already shut and placed on a small table next to her. "The Arl's been wondering where you were. Did you get yourself jumped on the way here?" she asks dryly before her eyes settle on the side of my head. The blood is thick and clotted and half frozen from the cold by then, and surely making an ugly rust-colored mess of my hair. Her gaze flicks to Soris, whose cheek wound has reopened and started bleeding again. "What—"

"Jumped, yes," I say. "Could you...I don't know if you can..."

Zevran extends his hand silently, the folded handkerchief wet with melted snow in his palm.

Wynne gestures for me to sit on the chair beside her bed, and I shake my head. "I'm okay where I am."

"But you look like you're about to fall over," she says, rising from her bed. She takes the bundle from Zevran's hand, undoes the folds briskly, and looks at the pale slice of flesh in her palm. I peer at it as well. It looks like Taliesen trimmed my ear as short as a human's. "This...may be doable, but I can't make any promises. Zevran, get some water. Two basins, one hot, one cool. And a few washcloths." She pauses. "Make sure the hot one is boiling hot. Ask Nigella for help."

He leaves without a word, shutting the door behind him. Wynne stares at me again, and I stare back at her.

"What happened, Daen?" she asks, and she suddenly sounds so much like a mother that I want to laugh. She reaches forward and I feel her healing warmth at my forehead, where the broken windowpane sliced me on my way out of the shack. Then she hooks her finger on the collar of my armor, frowning as she sees the bruises there and touching her hand to those as well.

"I forgot how bandits like to hide in back allies in Denerim."

"Don't lie to me, young man. You don't get to be as old as I am without learning how to spot a lie. And you've been lying since you got back from Fort Drakon." She peers at me, her expression so strangely like my father's that I nearly want to cry. "We're all on needles around you. Denerim has put something inside of you that the Grey Warden we know never had."

"Put something inside of me," I echo, and laugh. My voice is bitter and mocking in equal parts. "That's pretty much what happened, isn't it?"

Wynne will not stop staring at me. "Daen, what happened?"

I look at the toes of my boots, teetering on the ground with the effort it takes to stay upright while not moving around too much. "Nothing that hasn't happened before," I mumble.

I look up again and her eyes say it all. I do not know how she realized it. I suppose that makes things easier.

"It was a Crow. Ambush. Kind of. He wanted...it's...no, wait. Before Zev comes back. Can you...can you do something..." I am turning beet red, blushing like a child, words trembling and cracking like each syllable is a shard of ice. "He wasn't very..."

Wynne kneels and touches a hand to the side of Soris's jaw, and then steps past me and opens the door a handspan and looks back at him. "Soris, stand outside and guard the door. Don't let anyone in until I open it again. Not even Zevran, understand?"

Soris barks once and slips out, his tongue busily lapping bits of blood away from the side of his healed face. She closes the door behind his wagging tail and turns back to me, her eyes unreadable.

"Well. Just stay standing there. I'm going to have to take your pants off, is that all right?"

I nod. "Just...do whatever you need."

Wynne is always a professional when it comes to healing, all brisk and sure movements and never a single sign on her face of how bad something might be. She is not above scolding us for acting stupid in a fight, but she never lets her irritation get in the way of setting us all back on our feet again. I still bite my lip when the pants come down. Her expression, as always, does not change.

"I've done this before," she says brusquely. "The templars don't always leave the apprentices and Tranquils be, may they wander in Oblivion, but I've had some practice, I suppose you could say."

"That's good," I reply, closing my eyes. Everything below my waist feels sharply present and yet distant from me at the same time, and I barely feel the warmth that means that Wynne has started her work. I do not know how much time passes, or realize that it had, until I feel a pillow on the back of my head and realize that I am lying down with Wynne's face hovering over me.

"Back with me? That's a relief. You weren't very responsive for a bit there. But you at least let me walk you to the bed." She rummages in her beltpouch and pulls two small vials from its mouth. "Tip your head a bit, please, and show me your ear."

I do so, and feel drops of something cool and wet fall onto the tattered side of my head. It smells familiar, damp and musty with a bit of a metallic tang—like some of the untouched corners of the Deep Roads.

"Extract of elfroot, and a pinch of lyrium dust distilled with deep mushroom. It will help keep things tidy." She stoppers the vials and puts them back inside her beltpouch, and brushes my hair as if moving it to see the damage to my ear. Her fingers linger there, and continue brushing. Like a mother. I see her tilt her head out of the corner of my eye as she looks down at me. "I've healed everything I could. You may feel some tenderness for a few days, but there will be no lasting damage."

"Thank you, Wynne."

"Who did this to you?"

"A Crow. He came for Zevran. Found me first." My eyelashes flicker in my field of vision, dividing up Wynne's face behind a curtain of fibers. "I killed them."

She seems to consider whether she should say more before speaking again. "Daen, we've all noticed that you aren't nearly as precise or controlled in a fight as you usually are. Ever since we reached Denerim, you've been...erratic. Unreliable. I apologize, but there it is." She looks down at me, her fingers gentle on my hair. "I didn't understand why before, and I'm sorry for that. But you need to talk to somebody. And Soris doesn't count."

"There isn't much to say," I mutter. "I survived. That's all I did."

"Maybe that is how it was before. But right now, you are not surviving. You are merely existing. You've been blowing about like a leaf in the wind ever since we got here. Don't you see it? We're your friends, Daen, or at least I think most of us hope we are. We travel with you because you gave us a reason to keep moving when we all felt lost and alone in some way."

I try to laugh. "Oh, really? I thought it was all of the presents."

"Well, yes, the gifts help, and they're always very thoughtful...except for that strange little doll you gave me once. I passed that one to Alistair straight away." She shakes her head. "In any case, my point is: Let us help you when you're lost and alone, too."

I am silent for a while. "Wynne, how much do you know about city elves?"

Wynne looks at me with a brow raised high. "I've taught and worked alongside quite a few. Aneirin was one, as you may recall."

"Did you ever ask about...how they lived before they came to the Circle?"

"I...no. Their past lives didn't matter once they entered the Circle. It was the same for all of us."

"Hah. Wish I was born a mage," I say, and laugh. "Elves are...we're not really thought of as good for much. We can't do certain jobs, and there are some jobs that only we are allowed to do because it's too...dirty for human hands. And there are other...things that a lot of humans think we're good for, and if we don't start working at the Pearl, they come and take it themselves. That was...that was me. Are you...are you sure you all want to hear how the Grey Warden you've been following has been followed plenty of times in the past already?" Now I cannot even try to keep the fear out of my voice. "Does knowing that make _you_ feel better about me? Or does it just make you wonder why you've been _following_ a bit of trash half of Denerim's used as a handkerchief across Ferelden for the last year?"

Her hand stills on my head. "It makes me wonder about how you were able to be so strong on your own before you became a Grey Warden. And it makes me amazed at how strong you've been for the past year as a Grey Warden."

I do not reply, but I feel a prickle at my eyes and have to move my hand there quickly to soak whatever emerges on my gloves instead of letting it fall free. Maker's breath, I am turning into my cousin Soris.

Wynne keeps talking over my head, as if she has not noticed my motion. "You are a credit to the Order, and to the elves, and I have been so intent on making sure that you stay that way despite your youth—so much so that I forgot that you _are_ still so very young, with many great burdens on your shoulders. Maybe I have not learned as much from Aneirin as I thought I did.

"It is up to you whether you want to say anything to us—and how much you want to say, should you choose to do so. I cannot promise you that we will all understand what you have been through. But I can tell you this: Sometimes, when the hurt has been buried for so long, it seems much easier and safer to just leave it there, untouched. But until you can let it go, you will never be free of it. It will become a part of you, and change you to suit its liking."

"Are you talking about Aneirin?"

"Not only Aneirin. A question—of what I will do with this second life of mine, when this is all over." Wynne smiles. "There is to be but one life and one death, after all. I am truly an abomination in more ways than one."

"Maybe you could get back in touch with your son."

"Oh?" She seems bemused by the suggestion. "And you think he will want to see me?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I know I would like to see my mother again."

"Even if your mother is an old lady who came back from the dead?"

"I think so. It sort of makes her unique." I grin. "Besides, you're much better preserved than the corpses at Redcliffe."

She laughs for once. "So young."

"Yes," I murmur, "I know. Thank you, Wynne."

"It is my pleasure, Warden." She pats my hand. "And...talk to Zevran soon. He came back looking like a thundercloud yesterday, and from what I saw today, he isn't much improved. So, are you hiding anything else from me that I can help you with?"

I roll up my pants to show her where the trap had gotten me, and then ask her to help me take my armor and shirt off and reveal what I have been concealing underneath since Fort Drakon. These, she does not bother to hide her irritation at. Every dot of warmth as she moves from bruise to bruise and cut to cut is accompanied with a click of her tongue and a more tightly furrowed brow. When she is done, she sits back on the chair and crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at me.

"Those weren't the freshest wounds. Do I want to know why you've been keeping those from me?" she asks, glowering. "You know it is imperative that you and Alistair remain as healthy as possible."

I laugh awkwardly beneath the heat of her gaze. "If you keep scowling like that, your face is going to stick that way."

She throws her hands into the air. "Oh, I give up. Let's see if Zevran is back. It's been long enough, and he'll probably try to sneak in through a vent if we take any longer."

Zevran pops into the room almost as soon as Wynne opens the door, balancing a bowl in either hand and a folded cloth tucked under his arm. Soris follows at his heels and barrels straight towards me, barking loud enough to ensure that the entire estate will know where I am if they do not already.

"Soris, quiet," I say, and he stops barking but begins licking at my face instead, whining happily.

"Oh, for Maker's—down, Soris. _Down_!" Wynne shoulders Soris to the side and grabs my chin, inspecting my ear. "Well, at least he had the sense to avoid licking that."

"The water has cooled," Zevran says. "Shall I get more?"

"No, that won't be necessary."

He raises an eyebrow. "I thought you said it is to be boiling?"

"Hmm...yes. Because by the time you got it to me, it would be just hot enough." She takes the bowls from his hands and sets them down on the little table, removing her book quickly and tucking it back into her pack. "Now, then. Zevran, clean up Daen's ear with the boiled water. I just need to find some things."

"You aren't going to sew it back on, are you?" I ask. I cannot help grimacing at that. Needles make me nervous. I have had to get used to using them to patch and make new clothing after Mother died, but I never feel comfortable feeling their tiny silver lengths between my fingers. They are the only things in the world that can make me feel like a clumsy, overgrown fool; they cannot be controlled like a dagger, and they are almost undetectable on the ground, unlike traps. And they could wind up in my eye so easily!

"Don't be silly." Wynne is headfirst inside the mouth of her bag, rummaging through what sounds like a lot of books. "There will be no sewing on of body parts while I am around. But I do need something just in case your ear doesn't take to its old home and decides it's time to meet the Maker in the middle of supper. It would make things most awkward if it fell into Queen Anora's soup."

Zevran settles on the edge of the bed and dabs at my head with a slightly warm cloth. I have to lie on my left side and face away from the wall, so I do not have an excuse to not look at him while he works. I make up one instead, and simply close my eyes. "You mean it might still rot after you reattach it," Zevran says as he dabs. I wince at that. Thanks, Zev. "I have seen it happen before, although that was with the sewing route, not the...mm, magical route."

"Yes, well. Sometimes it's been too long between when the body and the body part _parted_, as it were, and things just don't properly attach, even with magic. Magic doesn't work on dead things, after all—not without blood magic, at least, and you know how I feel about that." She pats my leg. "Your ear still looks fairly fresh, so I'm hoping for the best."

"Then what are you looking for?" I ask.

She raises the finest needle that I have ever seen in one hand, and a spool of thread in the other.

"Oh, Maker, no. You said—"

"I said there wouldn't be any sewing _on_, not no sewing at all." Wynne arches her brows. "Shall I have Soris lie on you when I get to this part?"

"That might be for the best," I mutter.

After Wynne seals the ragged ends of my once whole ear together with a healing spell, it takes both Soris lying on me and Zevran steadying my head to keep me still enough for her satisfaction. Bandages, splints, and strange-tasting medicine I have had to endure, but it is simply unnatural to feel my own flesh darned up like I would my father's socks. I cannot stop twitching each time I feel the needle go through my ear or when Wynne ties and clips off each knot, which she seems to insist on doing for every single stitch over my protests. This only makes Wynne threaten to redo every stitch and tell Zevran to hold my head tighter. She only does four or five knots, but by the time she is finished, Soris has worked his way up to my chest and sprawls with all four limbs holding mine down, and I feel as though my head is about to fly off of my neck from Zevran pulling on it.

"That should do it," she finally says, clipping her last tied knot free from the spool with a pair of silver scissors no bigger than the span of my palm. "I'll keep an eye on it and take the stitches out if it looks like your ear isn't taking, but I think it'll be fine."

"Won't you have to take the stitches out eventually?" I ask, trying to free a hand from under Soris's paw to touch my ear.

She slaps my hand back down the moment it emerges. "Not these. They'll dissolve on their own. And don't touch."

"Dissolve by themselves? Is that magic?"

"Not quite. It's something a colleague of mine came up with, but it's essentially just thread made out of very fine twists of sheep gut. The magic is in preserving the thread so that it doesn't deteriorate before you need it."

"Can't you maybe just take them out anyway when it looks like my ear's going to stay on?"

Wynne raises a brow. "You do know that means I'll have to cut and pull each stitch out one by one."

"I'll...think about it."  
"You do that." She pats my leg. "It'll take about three months to go away." Wynne stands and collects the bowls from the table. "You two stay here while I see about getting our Warden a bath."

"I don't need another one," I say quickly. I cannot help it; even if Eamon can afford it, I think of elves huddled around a fire with too little fuel right now and cannot even imagine wasting so much firewood on myself again just for another bath. Besides, I have no desire to stare at myself in Lady Isolde's floor-to-ceiling mirror again. "Some hot water and a cloth would be fine. I'll just take a cat bath."

"Very well. Then I'll boil you some water."

"I can do that," Zevran says, rising as well.

She shoots him a look that actually manages to make him sit back down. "I am perfectly capable of boiling a pot of water." She opens the door and pauses at the threshold to look back at us. "But while I am gone, might I suggest the two of you take some time to talk things out? This is not the time for you two to quarrel." The door closes behind Wynne's robes with a soft _click_, and we fall upon uncomfortable silence, me on my side and staring at the door, Zev standing next to Wynne's chair, looking like he was trying to decide whether to sit down or not. Soris, however, simply yawns hugely and wiggles down the bed so that he is lying on my legs like a heavy lap blanket and closes his eyes.

"So does it look like Soris had a go at my ear?" I finally ask.

"Hmm." He sits on the edge of the bed, but he touches me only with his eyes. "I feel that I should apologize to you for today."

"For what?" I ask blankly.

Zev nods at my ear. "That, for one. Taliesen would not have found you if he was not looking for me." He gives me a steady look. "And knowing Taliesen, he did more beyond taking your ear. I have no way to apologize for that."

I shift uncomfortably beneath his gaze. "You said that he once meant something more to you before," I blurt. "Did you two...?"

"Oh, you caught that, did you?" He laughs. "Yes, we were. We formally entered our House as Crows at the same time, although he was a prospective for much longer than I. Taliesen was my comrade, and shared many of my views. We helped each other on our own contracts and many other things besides."

I wince as I speak the next words out loud. "He said that you and he often shared."

"We did," he replies frankly. "Marks and whores. The biting was a habit he developed on his own, however. Not one of his more attractive characteristics, to be sure."

"Attractive," I echo, and hesitate to ask the next question. But my morbid curiosity wants to know, may the Maker leave it in Oblivion where it is surely leading me. "Did you love him?"

"Love?" Zev seems amused. "No. Crows are not in the business of love."

I am floating away from my body, my strings cut by his words, and he continues without noticing. "And we are over, I assure you. Other than the fact that he is feeding the worms right now, he and I had an understanding about our partnership. It ended when I left Antiva."

"Oh," I say faintly, and ground myself by scratching behind Soris's ear. He flicks the opposite one at me but does not open his eyes.

"But speaking of Taliesen, I do owe you a great deal for eliminating him. With him dead, I am once again temporarily free of the Crows, so long as I do not reach their attention again." Zevran reaches into his beltpouch and pulls a carefully twisted, worn piece of leather from within. He tugs the ends apart and pushes the folds aside to reveal a small golden circle resting on his palm. He extends this towards me, and I lean forward to take a closer look at it. It is an earring, a simple golden hoop with a single brilliantly cut gem the color of Zevran's eyes dangling from it. I could see him wearing it, and wonder to myself why he does not.

"I picked this up on my first job as a Crow. My mark was a Rivaini merchant prince—of course, he was not wearing much in the way of clothing when I killed him, but he did have this and it was too beautiful to let it pass me by. I took it as a souvenir of sorts and have kept it on me since. I would like you to have it."

"This is...a little sudden," I say slowly. My heart is pounding like it is in the heat of a fight. I cannot tell if he offers the earring as simple thanks, an apology, or something else entirely, but I know which one I want it to be.

"Sudden? Not at all," he replies, his reassurance too quick to provide me any comfort. "You have given me my freedom again. I value that above all else."

"Are you sure you want to give me this? Just for...what you say it's for?"

He shrugs negligently. "You can do with it as you like. Sell it, keep it, wear it, give it away—it is all I have to give you."

"It seems like something you would value a lot," I venture.

"It is. But you are...you have done something that I also value." He brings it closer to me, beckoning for me to take the little ornament from his hand. "It is a small thing, all in all. My thanks to a brave man."

I would never be able to sell or give such a thing away, knowing how much he treasured it. But to keep it or wear it is just as unthinkable—I cannot live with the reminder of him in my pocket or, Maker help me, in my ear when it is nothing more than a reward like the ham bones I toss to Soris. Even scars fade, but this would be torture that I would never be able to live with.

Brave? Not I. Even he realized it yesterday at the alienage gates. He just had not heard me condemn myself for it yet.

I squeeze my eyes shut to break myself free of the temptation he offers me and sit up.

"Zevran, we need to talk."

"Talk? That is a change," Zev says, settling back with a quizzical expression on his face. "Ah, wait, I know what it is." He holds up his other hand. "I was wrong, and I apologize. I should not have insulted your family."

Masks again. "No, that isn't—we—Zev, I...I think..."

"Is the earring not enough?" He smiles too blithely. "Or do you wish to end what we have?"

"No!" I look down at my hands quickly. "It's...an incredible gift. I don't want to end anything. If you do, I won't hold you back. I just can't...I can't accept this until you know something about me."

"Ah," he says, and lowers his hand to rest its back on his knee, palm still upwards and open to hold the earring on display. "You have had a hard life. I understood that when I saw the alienage. But if you believe it so important, then I am more than ready to listen to your story."

"My life is nothing to complain about compared to yours," I temporize.

"I do not know about that yet." He looks at me pointedly.

I hesitate again. "You grew up in a brothel, Zev. Did you...hate the prostitutes?"

He quirks a brow at me. "They were my mothers and sisters after my own mother died. They did what they had to do to survive. Even if it meant selling me to the Crows. I hate them no more than I would hate any other creature trying to survive in poor circumstances. It would make as much sense as hating the marks who try to forestall their inevitable deaths by fighting back, no? Makes my job harder, but it is understandable."

"Okay." I rub my forehead. "Then I guess the best way to describe it is that—well, basically I used to be a prostitute. I just didn't work at the Pearl for most of it."

He grins wickedly. "Ah, but you are too talented for that establishment!" I flinch and Zev notices this time, narrowing his eyes at my reaction. He leans his chin on his fist. "Go on, then."

"Okay." I swallow. I need to be honest in this, so that he can choose to leave me on his own.

"My cousin Soris acts like a bit of a hen most of the time, but he is...really smart, Maker knows why. My father taught us all to read and write together—Shianni, Soris, and me—but Soris was the best. That meant he could have something more, if there was nothing holding him back, while I—I had what my mother taught me. She told me that I had to protect Shianni and Soris with what I knew. So that's what I tried to do. I saw the way a guard was looking at Soris one day and tried to scare him away, but he wasn't scared. So it...happened. That was my first time."

Zev gives me his half smile. "That is difficult to believe."

"It kept Soris safe," I say, defensively.

The smile disappears. "I do not mean..." He sighs. "You have been nothing but successful at 'scaring' unwanted attention away from the first day we met. I simply meant that I have a hard time imagining you ever failing at that. I will keep silent, if it makes you feel better."

"I'm sorry. I...well, I was a bit smaller when I was thirteen. Not by much, but small enough. It was like pitting a mouse against a cat." I shrug. "So I failed that day. And a few months after that. Eventually, it just became...conceding. Fighting back just made it worse, unless they wanted me to. I don't know how many times it happened; I lost count when I ran out of fingers. Once I figured things out, I started asking for things from them in exchange. I thought...I might as well. And sometimes they would come again the next day with friends.

"On my eighteenth birthday, some regulars came by. I had gotten a lot better at sneaking around by then, making sure Soris and Shianni never saw me and really only looking around when my parents were not at home. I could keep quiet and I knew the places where nobody went and was sure nobody else saw me, too, but I was too confident—the alienage is too small to guarantee that no one is watching all of the time. And that day, it was my mother watching. I don't know when she came home, but she saw them following me. So she followed them.

"They were noble's children, about my age. Always came in the same group. They'd been coming to the alienage to make trouble since I was ten, and figured out what I was doing not too long after I started. I sort of grew up with them, I guess you could say. They liked it when I struggled. The leader, Robirt, said it made it...feel better while—" I cut myself short. He didn't need to hear about that. "Anyway, my mother found us when they were warming up. And when she saw...I'll never forget the look in her eyes. She pulled them away and wouldn't let them touch me, and they hit her and tried to...well, she defended us both."

I find myself staring over Zev's shoulder to where Fang's hilt rested alongside Starfang against the far wall as I speak without realizing it, and I make myself look away. "Mother always kept a dagger on her, just in case, but she had always been able to talk her way out of having to even draw it before then. That day, she couldn't. She had to kill Robirt." I close my eyes. "The other three killed her in return. Took turns running her through, and then slit her throat while I cowered in the mud, and left her bleeding out while they ran away. I crawled to her and held her, but she was already dead. They nearly took her head off. When Dad came, we just sat there with her for a long time. Saying our goodbyes, I guess.

"Two days later, at her funeral, the guardsmen came to the alienage—not to investigate her death, but to post notices forbidding us from carrying weapons. They read it out loud to us, right in front of her pyre. If we had weapons, we would be executed on the spot, they said—and I knew that that was their story for what happened to Mother. She was just a criminal, and they executed her."

I open my eyes and look at Zevran, and I cannot read his face again. The mask is carefully impassive, as opaque as a shield.

"And what happened after?"

"Everyone blamed my mother and me for the weapons prohibition and the extra guard patrols that went through for a while. We were afraid of a purge. And, needless to say, any alienage elf that worked in Robirt's family's household was fired immediately, so there were a few elves angry with me because they had lost their jobs. It all passed, but it took about a year. There's a sort of exile period you have to go through if you do wrong in the alienage. We weren't kicked out because Dad is pretty well respected, and I'm sure Elder Valendrian had something to do with it, too. But Dad got swept up in it anyway because he was my mother's husband as well as my father. And for me, what I was doing—somehow that got out, too. You don't prostitute yourself inside the alienage; it's like shitting where you eat. Shianni and Soris didn't really care about that and still talked to me on the sly, but we spoke to no one else. Even my Dad and I stopped talking much to each other. We just...avoided one another.

"I tried to stop selling myself—it was the only way I could think of to make things up to Mother. But they kept coming back, and I couldn't stop them from coming. The best I could do was make sure it happened outside of the alienage. So I left home. I had to, before I became old enough to marry. They took me at the Pearl, but I think that was because I had clients following me. I figured if that didn't last, I could just find a hut somewhere in a back alley. And then I started thinking, maybe, if it came down to it, one day I'd even leave Denerim—although everyone has always said that was a sure way for an elf alone to end up dead in a week.

"When I was almost nineteen, my father came after me. I'll never forget that day. He took a day off from work, even though that meant losing a day's pay, and showed up first thing in the morning. I was sick and a complete mess and I still don't know how he found me. He took me home. And he got me a job, with the noble household he'd been working for. I could read and write a little, but not fast or well enough to work with Dad and Soris, and Dad didn't want me laundering because that's where the rapes happen when Lady Efana's guards get out of hand. So all I did was clean the mabari cages and the garbage heaps, nothing very fancy. I was up to my elbows in refuse for a year and a half and I was...so happy. So relieved. Nobody bothered me there. The guards still stared at me, and some of them probably even knew me, but they never touched me. I walked with Dad and Soris to and from work every single day and everyone started talking to me again, and some even told me how proud they were that I was working at Lady Efana's. And I stopped climbing the _vhenedhal_.

"I loved it." I look back down at my hands, fingers flexing nervously in Soris's fur. "I felt free. For the first time in my life. All I ever wanted was to not hurt anymore. To be clean again. To feel like I owned my own flesh, and that I did not have to be ashamed of it. I wanted to feel safe, and to have something I could count on—to know that things will at least be the same tomorrow as they are today, instead of getting worse. It's all that any of us want in the alienage. It took me nineteen years to figure that out. And I nearly destroyed it all again for everybody a year later at my own wedding.

"I know what you mean when you talk about freedom being so valuable to you. It's the same for me. But our ideas of freedom are as different as the two ends of a sword. I'm just a city elf, Zev. Nobody special at all. The whole Warden thing was pure luck, and it's changed a lot for me, but it cannot change a lot about me. My past will always be a part of who I am. I hate..._hate_ the humans. I hate Denerim. But the alienage, my father, Shianni and Soris and my family—I love them. They're my home. I'll never be able to leave them alone."

I search his eyes and I do not know what he is thinking, but I know that expression. When I last saw it, he was sitting up on an imaginary torture rack, his lips in a rigid half smile and his eyes sunken and still behind a frozen layer of mirth, like ice over a pond. He had looked at me and remarked cheerfully about how bracing a good stretch could be. And that was the first time I realized how well he wore his masks in every waking moment of his life.

"I've seen you with that face before," I say softly. "In the Fade." His eyes become clear with confusion and I reach out and close his fingers around the earring before he can speak. "I can't take this, Zev. I'm sorry."

He laughs softly. There is a mocking note to the sound, but I cannot tell who it is directed towards. "You pick up every copper and threadbare rug you come across until your pack is fit to burst, but you will not take this one small thing. _Qe brillanta_."

"It won't be a small thing to me." I look away. "I never thought I would meet someone like you. When I'm with you, I feel like..." I grin briefly. "Like the past nine years of my life never happened." I bite my lip and look back up at him, daring to touch the sides of his face with just the barest caress of my fingertips and holding them there, hovering against the velvet of his skin like butterflies poised to alight upon a flower. "I don't want to lose you, Zev. But I don't know how much longer we'll be together for, and I can't live with never knowing. I promise, I'll give you everything of me if you give me everything of yourself. But is that what you want?"

He backs away from my fingers and stands, twisting the earring back up into the folds of leather and slipping the small bundle back into his beltpouch. His silence scares me, and yet it is no more than what I had expected.

"I don't know if it is," I say quietly for him. I rub Soris's healed cheek. Wynne has done excellent work as always, and the only scars I feel beneath my hand are the ones Soris earned on his own in King Cailan's army. "I'm sorry, Zev. It wouldn't be fair to you."

The Landsmeet is tomorrow. I will be under the scrutiny of the most important men and women in Ferelden in a matter of hours. Their eyes will fix upon a skinny elf who stands beside a young human—together, the very last Ferelden Grey Wardens. They will wonder who these Wardens are, to have dared to gather an army against the Blight, to now demand that the human Warden take the throne, and to presume to command them all to follow at the elf's heels into battle. Tomorrow is a day to dread.

And all I want to do is go to sleep now and awaken then, so that I can pretend that all of today was just a bad dream.

* * *

_Updates will be less frequent now due to starting a new job. There will probably be updates from _Beak_ and/or _Clouds_ every Sunday, depending on circumstances. I've got most of them written; it's lacing bits together that makes things difficult. Thanks for sticking with me._

_Until next time. -K_


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

The first thing I do when I wake is touch my fingers to my right ear. The little bumps of thread laced into it, spread in a meandering constellation across its breadth, confirm that the only dream I had had in the last so many hours was the one where the Archdemon nearly swallowed me whole. I hope my nightmares did not wake the others last night.

I feel a warm body shift next to mine and look down, my heart skipping a beat. But it is only Soris. My great big mabari is still asleep, his paws paddling in little circling motions and wearing a hole into one of Eamon's rugs, and he smells wholly of dog once again. I watch him run in his sleep with a smile on my face and restrain myself from patting him on the head, as that would surely wake him.

The others had not asked much of me when I returned to the library to sleep yesterday, other than a few remarks on the interesting new design on my ear. Alistair had taken some of them to speak to the banns that had gathered for the Landsmeet, and returned reporting some positive results from many of them. I had done some recruiting on my own as well, although it was mainly because Eamon had sent a servant for me the moment I stepped outside of Wynne's room. Things will be interesting today, to say the least. Alistair had not been overly enthusiastic about marrying Queen Anora, and she was barely tepid about the idea as well. But I managed to talk them both into it anyway.

Alistair was beginning to want the throne, I could see that; but as much as I would have liked to believe he would do well no matter what decisions he made as king, even I knew that he would need help. And Queen Anora wanted the throne more than anything, but did not have the blood or the gender to win it easily on her own. An alliance between the two only made sense. Besides, I was weary of killing humans to get results in Denerim.

They would make a good team, as long as they could get past how much they despised one another. I had my hopes—I still do not trust the Queen, but she is not stupid; and if Alistair could learn to fight alongside Morrigan, he could learn to fight alongside the Queen as King. With Queen Anora in debt to me for her throne as well, she might be more inclined towards assisting Alistair in liberating the alienage.

I stand, gathering my bedroll in my arms and wincing at the slight jab of pain that lingers in my tailbone whenever I move. I can at least pretend that it is because of sleeping on the hard stone floor of the library. I glance over the top of the bookshelf as I roll my blankets together. Zevran is long gone, as evidenced by the neat stack of his belongings at the opposite side of the room where he slept last night. He will not speak to me at all. Of course, the others have noticed, and the curious look Leliana sent me when she passed my bedroll last night did not make me feel any better about it.

A deep rumble interrupts my thoughts. I look up to nearly the ceiling to meet Sten's gaze and smile at him in greeting, although this does not earn me anything in return. Sten is a strange one, as to be expected of a qunari, but he is the easiest of my companions to understand. I am sure I would not do well as a qunari, from what he has told me of his people and their ideas of one's "place" in the world, but I like that there is nothing hidden about him.

Sten has never called me by my name. Recently, however, he has started calling me something other than "Warden." It is in his tongue—_kadan_, I think it is. I have heard him call Shale the same thing, and have often wondered what it means, other than a strange title that he has bestowed upon the two of us. Shale and I are so different in many ways that I cannot even begin to figure out what links us together in Sten's eyes. It might mean something like Zevran's Antivan words, except Zevran uses those for me and me alone, and is all sleek insinuations beneath heavy lids when he speaks them. Sten is curt and straightforward, his word a label that carries none of the lilting suggestiveness that infuses Zevran's voice. I sometimes wish Sten would just call me by my name, but I can appreciate the utility of the title.

Besides, I would surely be entirely useless if I heard anything remotely resembling Zevran today. That means it is a good day to avoid Cesar in the marketplace, although I had been thinking of purchasing some soldier's bane as there will surely be plenty of warriors at the Landsmeet. I never know when things will go wrong.

"You have recovered. That is good," he says in his gravelly voice. "It is not wise to allow your wounds to overcome what you must do."

"What's this about?" I ask.

"You have been hurt." His eyes are on my ear, but I cannot help but wonder if he has detected other things. "There was a question in my mind of whether you would still be fit to lead when I saw you yesterday. I am glad to see my concern was not necessary, _kadan_."

"Thank you. Do you..." I hesitate, wondering what I would say if his answer was yes. "Do you want to know what happened?"

"It is unnecessary. I have learned all that I need to know at the present. But the bearded old human wishes me to tell you that the Landsmeet begins soon. And that there is food for you waiting in the kitchen."

"He told you that?" I ask curiously. I was the only non-human among my friends that Eamon seemed to want to deal with.

"Effectively, yes. He sent a shaking female elf to inform me of this."

I smile at that, although I hope it was not Nigella. "Thanks for passing it on, Sten. You aren't a messenger, though, you know."

"Yes." He pauses. "Is the bearded old human your Arishok?"

"Uh, no, I wouldn't say that. To be honest, I don't think we really have one right now."

"Interesting," Sten says. "But reassuring. I would have had great doubts about our chances in ending this Blight otherwise."

"Why's that?"

"The bearded old human is too concerned with things other than the Blight to lead your country out of it. But I question your lack of Arishok."

I ponder on that. "Sten, what do you think about Alistair being king?"

"Is this something he wishes?" Sten actually seems surprised.

"It seems to be."

"Interesting," Sten repeats. "I do not know what your king does. If it is the same as Arishok, then I would hesitate to see Alistair as king."

"Well, a king isn't just an Arishok for us. He's also...a spiritual leader, I guess."

"Do your Chantry priestesses not fill that role already?"

I stuff my bundled bedroll into the corner of the room and wake Soris with a good scratch behind his ears. He opens his eyes and immediately rolls over onto his back with all four paws in the air, begging for a belly rub. I oblige, slouching the nearly furless skin of his stomach back and forth. He wiggles with glee. "They do in certain matters, but there are other things that the king does that the Chantry won't touch. Like overseeing the kingdom, collecting taxes, keeping the roads safe, protecting the people and making sure they're happy—things like that."

"So your Arishok is part Ariqun, part Arigena, and...something else entirely? That is most confusing and unnecessarily complicated. It is no wonder your people are tearing themselves apart."

"That's part of it, though. A good king would be able to unite the Ferelden that's come undone, and once we're united, we can end the Blight together, as a single people."

"So much chaos and weakness in your own ranks, and yet you continue to resist the Qun," Sten says dryly. "There would be only order if your people submitted."

"Hah! It's a mess, for sure. But I guess we like giving each other massive brainaches."

"Then Alistair will be a perfect king for your people. He is a good soldier. And he is likeable and simple to understand, and does not have much brain with which to receive an ache."

"Ouch."

"And yet..." Sten appears even more thoughtful than usual. "I do not see this as something that he entirely wants, and that would lead one to question how well he will do as a king."

I raise my brows. "Do you think he doesn't want to be king?"

"I think he is uncertain of what he wants."

"Does that mean he isn't ready for it?"

"You ask far too many questions, _kadan_."

"I value your opinion," I say truthfully. No one throws a bucket of cold water better than Sten, although Wynne is a close second.

"Hmm. Very well. I do not think he is ready for it. But in this matter my opinion is valueless. The question you should be asking is whether _he _thinks he is ready for it. Of that, I have no opinion."

"He seems to be," I say evasively. I have been trying to make him ready, at least. After today, it will be up to him whether to fly or to fall.

"That is not an answer." Sten allows me to give Soris's belly a parting pat before speaking again. "Tell me, _kadan_, why are you not this king?"

"Me?" I laugh. "I'm an elf. I'll be the king the day one of your converted elves becomes Arishok."

"If there is an elf suited to be Arishok, then the Arishok will be an elf," Sten replies evenly. I wonder to myself if it is really that simple, but do not voice my question out loud. "Of those I have come to know in Ferelden, you are the only _bas_ whom I deem _varaad_—worthy to follow. I wonder, then, why you are not king."

"Thanks, Sten." I stand, Soris rising to his paws beside me. "But I've got enough on my plate being a Grey Warden as is. Do you..." I hesitate. "Alistair always talks about how much he loves being a Warden. Do you think he will be just as happy as king?"

Sten gives me a look that I have not seen in a long time—not since we first met, before I realized that there was a trick to successfully interacting with him. "_Parshaara_," he snorts. "I will tell you again what I have told you once, and no more: Happiness is fragile. Nothing can be built upon it that will last. You ask if Alistair will be happy as king. My answer is that your question invites suffering." Sten opens the library door and stands aside for me to pass. "_Asit tal-eb, kadan_. It is to be."

"And I shall submit," I glibly murmur, thinking that I speak low enough that it is out of Sten's earshot.

Sten rumbles deep in his chest as I pass by, and I glance up at him a little guiltily. But he has no sharp words for me, and shows no signs of annoyance or disapproval.

"Only duty endures, _kadan_," he says. "And yours is a great one. Do not question what it demands of you."

I remember Sten's words when I stand with my back to the wall in the Royal Palace's throne room, Loghain staring me down, his narrowed eyes and weatherworn face bearing the exact same expression of long suffering that he wore when I first saw him at Ostagar. Duty told me to fight him. Duty can go straight to Oblivion.

All of my companions decided to attend—even Zevran. But we did not belong at the Landsmeet. This was made abundantly clear the moment we stepped foot inside the palace. The nobles were least concerned with Wynne and Leliana, but I am sure they would have cause for gossip if they heard Leliana's unmistakable Orlesian accent. Morrigan was, as usual, unapologetically proud and returned every glance with a haughty yellow-eyed stare of her own. Wide eyes bounced especially between Sten, Shale, Oghren, and Zevran, and more than a few settled on me, the elven Grey Warden who everyone surely knew by now was the same one who killed Bann Vaughan a year ago. The banns at least have more decorum than to gossip openly, but they did not stop staring down at me from their perches in the second floor balcony.

My ears nearly burned off of my skull with the stares and whispers sent between the minor nobility behind their lifted hands. It was a good thing that Zevran has not cut my hair in a while—my hair had grown out to cover most of my ears, and I hoped it helped to hide most of the flush from view. I was quietly too terrified to look at them as Morrigan did, and stared straight ahead focusing on Alistair's back instead as we made our entrance. The banns were especially interested in him, and the shock in their faces was as though they witnessed a ghost.

Alistair chose to wear his brother's armor today. We found it when we went back to Ostagar. The resemblance between him and King Cailan was suddenly so uncanny that even I wondered why I had not seen it until now. But he had focus in his eyes, which King Cailan never had. It was the focus of a Warden. My brother—I was never prouder of him.

The banns listened to us speak. There were challenges to what we said, but none that I did not have a reply for. For once, everything that I need to say was there at the tip of my tongue, and when the cries ring out in our favor, I cannot help but wish that my father was here to see it. They are even angry at Loghain's attempt at selling the entire alienage into slavery—somehow Alistair managed to find documents authorizing Tevinter entry, and they are all signed in Loghain's hand. I watch Loghain's eyes turn even colder as the banns speak against him, and wonder if nothing will shatter his austerity.

But I have my answer soon enough. It is Queen Anora's denunciation that brings Loghain to his feet with his fist on his sword. He does not relax until the Grand Cleric suggests that one of us duel him. I look carefully back at my companions, somehow managing not to linger upon a set of amber eyes. Their gazes all meet mine squarely. They know as well as I do that the only question now is whether it will be me or Alistair. Loghain brought the fight to the Wardens, and the Wardens have returned the challenge.

But when I look to my brother at my side, the calm stillness in his face belies the smoldering anger rampaging like a dragon in his eyes, and I know exactly what that means.

"Alistair," I hiss, "if I let you take the challenge, are you going to be able to keep yourself from killing Loghain?"

He is as a still as a statue for a few breaths before shaking his head.

Do not question what duty demands, I think to myself, and bite back a sigh.

I glance down at Soris, deliberately languid. "Maybe you should do it, mabari against mabari. What do you say, boy?"

Soris barks eagerly, and Loghain bristles. Eamon coughs. "Er, no, Warden. I'm afraid that would not be entirely appropriate."

I smile innocently. It is a good thing Eamon still needs me; he is probably counting down the days until the Blight is over and he will not have to tolerate me any longer. "Is an elf a more appropriate choice, then?"

"You are referring to yourself?" Eamon's smile is a little stiff. I know he was hoping I would choose Alistair. Alistair will have plenty of time to prove himself on the battlefield against the darkspawn, but if we survive the Blight, Ferelden will not look kindly upon a king who killed one of its own heroes. Even if that hero has since proven himself to be no better than the Orlesians he helped drive out of Ferelden.

And I have wanted to gut Loghain from the moment I awoke in Morrigan's care in the Korcari Wilds. Seeing my father in a cage had not lessened that desire.

"I suppose, as a Grey Warden—"

I unsheathe Starfang and draw Fang in my off hand before Eamon finishes speaking, pointing both at Loghain while the song of their freedom still rings in the air. "As a Grey Warden, who Loghain abandoned to the darkspawn at Ostagar. As a Fereldan, who wants nothing more than to see this Blight come to an end. And as Daen Tabris, whose family Loghain dared to sell into slavery after he himself fought to free Ferelden from its enslavement to Orlais. I am your opponent, Loghain. I stand against you for all of us."

The babbling crowds of nobility clear the floor as swiftly as waves running back into the sea. Loghain's expression never changes, and his sword clears its sheathe with a raspy hiss. He raises his shield before him and lowers his stance. "I accept," he growls. He wants this to be over as much as I do.

We circle each other in silence. I wonder briefly if I have been too hasty in choosing to duel him. He is heavily armored, and although I have been successful in practices against Alistair before, Loghain is far more experienced and likely has fought many duels in the past. His armor is very well made and he can easily guard the joints with his shield, which will be a problem of its own. The only saving grace for me is that he is not wearing a helmet, which leaves his head and neck open if I can get high enough to reach them. It also means that he will be guarding those areas closely. But today is not a Crow ambush in a back alley. If I can handle Sten in a serious duel and fight my way out of Fort Drakon, I am sure that I will be able to take Loghain—given enough time. And I am a Grey Warden, with all of the advantages that bestows.

It is a good thing Wynne healed me of my wounds from Fort Drakon. I will need all of the stamina I can muster for this fight.

Loghain takes the first swing, and I am not there to meet it. I step back and invite him to follow me, allowing him to swing a few more times and keeping just out of reach. When he begins to throw his arm back for another blow, I step inside his guard and aim Fang at his throat, intending to have him yield right then and there.

His shield moves faster than I can blink. Fang slides off of its metal plane, doing no more damage than chipping a few flakes of paint off of Gwaren's crest. The green rampant dragon rushes towards my face in response to its wounding, and I barely manage to slip to the side in time, tumbling to avoid Loghain's outstretched leg and rolling back upright a few feet away.

We trade a few blows back and forth, although I am concentrating more on avoiding his strikes than actually attempting to block or meet them. He knows that I am trying to target his head now and protects it very well, both with his sword and his shield.

His sword arm, I learn quickly, is incredible for a man his age. The first blow I deflect with Starfang sets my teeth ringing in my head, and I make a note not to take too many more of those. But even with this in mind, I am soon forced to parry a lightning-fast strike low to my thigh that throws me off balance and leaves my back open to him.

His shield connects with the small of my back where pain still lingers from yesterday. I have to grit my teeth to do nothing more than grunt with the blow as I am knocked sprawling to the ground. A unified gasp rises from the crowds, but I can barely hear it over the dull thumping in my ears.

"Is this how they teach you Wardens to fight, elf?" Loghain growls. "I am not impressed."

I roll forward and take my feet with my back to the wall, between two panels of richly embroidered hangings. The wall provides some support for my spine, which seems to want to do nothing but curl over from the shocks of electricity that run up its length. "It's a good thing I'm not here to impress you, then," I return. Somehow, my voice manages to stay steady and strong.

Inside, I am shaking. I am not out of breath, but neither is he.

I was truly not thinking clearly when I took the challenge. I cannot face Loghain head on. He is unlike any opponent I have ever fought before—far more coordinated than any darkspawn, and faster than Sten, more skilled than Alistair, and stronger than Leliana and even Zevran, too. Loghain is a werewolf with weapons. If there were no eyes on us, I would be cutting the tapestries down on his head to distract him, but I know the human nobility would never stop talking about that. Never mind that he is twice my size and wearing armor that weighs as much as I do. There is no way for me to make this a fair fight. I am trapped.

No, I tell myself. You have always gotten yourself out of traps. Get yourself out of this one.

I slip past Loghain and he turns to follow me, his shield lashing out again to catch me as I go by. I sheathe Starfang and grab the edge of his shield with my freed hand. When he draws his shield back, I go with it, sticking to the shield's surface and catching my feet on the lower half. It is a dangerous and clearly insane move, and I see that in Loghain's eyes over the top of his shield. I duck when he tries to take my head off with his sword and scale the length of the shield in two quick steps while he is still recovering from the strike. He covers his head with his shield before I can get over its lip—I suppose my additional weight is not enough to faze him—and crouches like a turtle beneath it while I balance on top. We are at an impasse for the moment, but it will not last.

I kick off of the shield and get back into the open area of the throne room. He advances towards me, and although he does not appear to be tiring, I can tell that his shield arm is beginning to flag. Perhaps I managed to wrench it earlier. It will slow him, but I must still be careful.

He backs me up the steps to the dais where the king's throne sits empty, and I feign tiring with every step I take. He is likely aware of Grey Warden stamina, but I know he wants this fight to be done with soon, too. Every precious moment we spend in battle is one fewer moment to take on the darkspawn. I deliberately let my heel catch on the final step before the dais proper and stumble backwards. A chorus of voices cry out somewhere below. He closes the distance between us, his strong legs devouring three steps upwards at a time, and I fall away from him, Fang held loosely at my side.

The king's throne meets me as if it was waiting for me to fall into its embrace. It is far too wide for me, and that is what saves me in the end—when Loghain drives the tip of his sword directly towards my chest, I twist to the side in the last breath and practically throw myself onto one of the ornately carved arms of the throne, towards the outer side of his sword arm, so that I will not have to manage his shield. Time moves slowly, frozen in a moment of utter clarity that I have not experienced since I walked through the Brecilian Forest caught in snow before we returned to Denerim. I have the moment to observe the snarling carved mabari head that I almost lie upon, its eyes set with chips of sapphire and a deep scratch in its carved gilded fur almost obliterating the entire outer part of its face. I am sure this is the first time an elf has been close enough to touch its small head since its creation. It looks like Soris, with its crooked ears and bared jaws, and that gives me the strength to turn back to Loghain.

I drive Fang at his exposed neck, only a scant inch away from my face. He freezes in place, his sword embedded in the back of the king's throne, and I press Fang's edge just enough to draw a thin line of blood from his sweating skin. "Yield," I say softly, and the word seems to carry to every corner of the room, traveling through noble ears as swiftly and surely as wind through treetops or the most recent piece of gossip.

Loghain throws his shield to the ground, and the green dragon lies at my feet, its face frozen in an impotent snarl. "I yield," he says. "It is your victory...Grey Warden."

My title leaves his mouth grudgingly, but I revel in the acknowledgement nonetheless. The stillness in the audience behind him is palpable, and I cannot care less. I loosen Fang's pressure, and Loghain rises and steps to the side, falling to his knees before me. I stand as well, my limbs nearly stiff with relief and sluggish from an exhaustion that seems to strike without warning.

Below us, the nobles are frozen in place, their eyes a hair away from flying out of their faces and at least a dozen jaws slack in astonishment that I can see. But the only people I care to look at are the eight faces and one drooling dog gathered in a loose fist apart from the silken dresses and velvet sleeves. We have traveled far together, and now we will travel further still.

"Warden, what would you have us do with him?" The Grand Cleric's voice seems to come to me through a tunnel, and I turn my head to focus upon her. Today was the first time I had seen her so close. Every time prior had been in passing, and only what I could catch from the rafters of the Chantry or between slightly ajar doors. I am not as impressed with her as I thought I should be.

"He needs to die," Alistair says suddenly, and I look at him and almost nod in agreement.

"No!" The Queen's voice is sharper than I have ever heard it. Her blue eyes are as studiously regal as always, but the corners of her mouth twitch almost imperceptibly, as if she fights back another cry. She seems to calm herself. "No," she repeats, more sedately. "He is still an icon for many of Ferelden's people. Kill him now, and you will lose a great hero." Her next words are directed at me, and spoken softly, as if pleading with me. "I have agreed to the new king. Place General Loghain in prison and leave it at that. He will do no further harm there."

"He can't be trusted. Greater men have died for the kind of treachery he's responsible for," Alistair snaps.

"If I may suggest a solution..."

Riordan steps forward, his hands clasped behind his back, and I know that I will not like what he has to say.

"We need more Wardens. There are only three in all of Ferelden at the moment when we should have far more."

"No thanks to Loghain," Alistair snarls.

Riordan's eyes do not leave mine. "That is true. But we are in a Blight, and we will need Wardens to end this once and for all. It seems a waste to let a trained warrior rot in prison during these times."

"What are you suggesting?" I ask.

"Have him take the Joining."

"What? Are you insane?" Alistair demands.

"He may die," I say slowly.

"Then he dies," Queen Anora interjects swiftly. She glances at her father. "If he survives, you have your Warden. If he does not, you have your revenge. It seems a fair compromise, does it not?"

A compromise, indeed. I look at Loghain, but he is not looking at me. He has never stopped looking at his daughter.

I look at the Queen and she meets my gaze squarely, her expression unchanging. But beneath her hard blue eyes I catch a glimpse of a little girl with pigtails and skinned knees, who fights now with what resources she has to keep her father alive.

Fathers and their children. They are the same no matter who we are.

"We need more Wardens," Riordan repeats, and there is a slight urgency beneath his statement that makes me wonder what he still has not said.

I sheathe Fang. "You will atone for what you have done to Ferelden," I say coldly, and nod at Riordan. "Perform the Joining. If he survives, so be it." I look at the Queen. "But then he will be mine."

Both the Orlesian and the Queen incline their heads towards me in an oddly respectful gesture, but I do not care enough to do more than make a mental note of it. I descend the steps of the dais and stalk out of the throne room, past murmuring crowds and eyes that never stop staring at me. Soris tucks his head beneath my hand and falls into step beside me, and I hear the tap of Wynne's staff as she follows me. It would not do for her to heal me in front of the entire nobility of Denerim.

The doors to the throne room close behind me with a hollow sound, and an armored hand falls heavily on my shoulder and spins me around to face its owner. "How could you do that?" Alistair keeps his voice pitched low, but it is ragged and broken, and I blink in surprise at his tone.

"Do what?" I ask, confused.

"Let Loghain become a Warden."

"He has as much a chance of dying from the Joining as anything else," I reply. "And if that doesn't kill him, then it is just as likely that fighting the Blight will."

"That's not what I'm talking about." He shakes his head vehemently. Our friends remain gathered with their backs to the closed door behind Alistair, watching our exchange in silence.

"I don't understand," I say. "We're in a Blight. We need Wardens."

"Becoming a Warden isn't just some armor and sword you throw at people and expect them to put it on," he growls. "It has to be something that you're meant for. It's a calling. Duncan didn't just recruit anybody willy-nilly—"

"Well, it isn't as if he told me what he looks for in Warden recruits," I snap back. "And it isn't as if he had a perfect track record with recruiting Wardens. _You_ know that. You haven't forgotten Ser Jory already, have you?"

"But he still _wanted_ to be a Warden when Duncan recruited him."

"I didn't want to be a Warden when Duncan conscripted me."

"But you are one now. It's what you were meant to be."

It is my turn to shake my head. "Alistair, I don't understand what you're going on about. _We_ _need Wardens_."

"Maker! And I'm supposed to be the dumb one?" Alistair releases my shoulder and steps back. "The Wardens are a brotherhood. We aren't just...tools for Ferelden to dispose of as it pleases. We fight together, or we don't fight at all. We survive together, or all of us fall. How can you expect me to just trust the man responsible for our decimation with my back turned to him in battle? That's what Duncan did. He's betrayed us once, and I can't let him betray us again."

Alistair is angrier than I have ever seen him, and I still do not understand him. The Wardens were created to fight darkspawn. Perhaps things were good before the Blight, during the better times when the Wardens had the luxury of drinking together until they were all slumped to the ground. But they were not the Wardens I knew.

"You're king now, Alistair," I say quietly. "And I need more Wardens."

Alistair looks at me, his eyes dark with hurt and betrayal. "You know that isn't what I wanted," he says.

And I stare back at him, unable to take back the words that have left my mouth, and know that with them I have just lost my brother.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

We leave to defend Redcliffe tomorrow, and my heart feels as if it is about to break. First Zevran, now Alistair—who else am I going to drive away before this Blight is over? I deserve it all, but knowing that does not stop the hurt.

He will be king. It is what I wanted. But Alistair's last words before he turned and refused to look at me again will not leave my head. I do not know if they ever will.

I sigh down at the open book before me and am grateful that there is no one else in the library to hear me except for Soris, who is drowsily balled up around my feet. Eamon told me that I would not be needed until we depart. I took that as a sign and hid myself immediately. I suppose it is just nostalgia that sent me among the books in his library. It is nowhere near as large or well-stocked as Lady Efana's, but it is the closest thing to a private room that I have in his estate.

The books remind me of home. Between their pages, I see my cousins Shianni and Soris's heads bent beside me, their eyes fixed on the slate they hold between them. Soris rarely received anything but smiles and praise for his handwriting, and read every single thing he could get his hands on. Shianni complained but learned because her parents made her, as they had lost all hope for her brother. She was good enough to work for any noble—but she worked for Alarith instead, refusing to leave the alienage to find a job and insisting that she was needed at home.

And I? I was pathetic. I can hear my father now. He sighed constantly at my handwriting, which both sprawled and crabbed in turns and rarely spelled words longer than three letters correctly. I also wrote backwards sometimes, according to Dad, even though the words always looked right to me. Even now many of them make no sense. They sprawl across the paper like worms after a rain twisting back onto themselves.

But I had been all right, as long as I could ask Shianni and Soris to read things to me when I could not decipher them on my own. I had never imagined that they would not be there to continue to do so. Leliana and Alistair filled that role when I came across books from time to time on our journeys, but they were not my cousins.

And now Alistair will no longer be there to help me struggle through another page.

How could a decision that had seemed so right at the time be so obviously wrong now? I have never thought myself infallible, and made my share of wrong choices. But I have not made a choice whose poor consequences were thrown down my throat so soon afterward since I was eighteen.

I drop my forehead on my raised hands and sigh again. Things always make more sense in my head than they do outside of it.

"Daen?"

Soris uncurls immediately and barks happily at the tentative voice at the doorway. I look up, almost expecting to see Sten standing there again like he had this morning. But the shadow is shorter and far more slender, and the straight strands of its bobbed hair glisten like new copper in the glow of the candle before me.

"Leliana?" I say cautiously. We have not spoken in the past few days. She steps forward into the library, a hesitant smile on her face.

"I think you know these two, no?"

She steps to the side and I drop my hands to the table, smiling despite myself. "Shianni? Soris!"

"Hey, look, Soris, I think I know this guy!" Shianni grins at me, her hands on her hips and her eyelashes fluttering in a mock swoon.

"Be still my heart! Can I have an autograph?" Soris chimes in.

"How did you two get in here?" I wrap my arms around their thin shoulders and drag them towards me. Shianni is only about an inch taller than me, but Soris is nearly as tall as Leliana and has to bend a little to return my embrace. They are laughing into my ears, and it is the most beautiful sound that I have ever heard.

"It was her." Shianni jerks her chin at Leliana, who stands leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her stomach.

I glance at Leliana curiously and she shrugs. "I heard a commotion by the door and saw some of the Arl's guards trying to shoo these two away. They said that they were your cousins and they were looking for you," she says. "So I helped them a little."

"Yeah, a little," Shianni says, casting a suspicious look over her shoulder. "But it got us in."

I shake my head. "What are you two doing here, anyway?"

"We're having a party, Daen!" Soris exclaims. I take a step away and eye him. He claps his hand on my back in response. "Come on, it's almost dusk! We're going to dance all night!"

"In the middle of winter?" I reply, dumbstruck. "And what for?"

"I'm sorry, where are my manners?" Shianni clasps her hands behind her back and tilts her head towards me at an exaggerated fawning angle. "_You_, serah, are cordially invited to a celebration for an elf who came back from the dead, saved the entire alienage from slavery, and handed the Hero of the River Dane's overblown human ass back to him on a shiny silver platter two days later. Please respond before sundown."

My mouth gapes and Soris loops his arm around mine. "I think I heard a 'yes,' Shianni."

"You sure that wasn't an echo from the fly I saw go buzzing in?" Shianni says.

"Are you two joking?" I finally manage. "I don't need a party—"

"Oh, yes you do." Shianni grabs my free hand and tugs me towards the door.

"I have to leave tomorrow—"

"Not until past dawn, I would say," Leliana interrupts with a small smile. "Go on, Daen. You do not know when you will see your family again after this, no?"

I hesitate, my feet pinned to the floor.

"Your friend can come too, if she wants," Shianni says a little grudgingly. She has always had a low tolerance bordering on hate for humans, but she seems to have warmed up to Leliana—at least as much as she can. "Maker—they all can."

"How marvelous!" Leliana smiles. "Will there be music?"

"Of course," Shianni snorts. "We take turns. And Soris is the best fiddler in all of Denerim."

"Shianni!" Soris protests, a touch of red blooming on his cheeks.

Leliana claps her hands together in a gesture of girlish glee. "What fun! Daen, why don't you leave the inviting to me? Go ahead with your cousins. We will meet you there."

A cold nose shoves into the small of my unarmored back, and I jump forward with an undignified squawk and whirl to meet my mabari's limpid eyes. Soris's tail wags a few times and he whines hopefully.

"I think Soris wants to come, too," Leliana says.

My cousin Soris starts. "Of course I do!"

Shianni, though, bursts out laughing. "Oh, Maker! I knew he couldn't have just been called 'Dog'! You named him Soris? You're horrible!"

"What?" My cousin lets go of my arm and sends me a betrayed look. "You named your slobbery mabari after me?"

"Because I missed you," I try to explain. It is mostly a lie—my cousin is four paws and a constantly drooling tongue away from being exactly like my mabari.

"You're the worst, Daen." Soris sniffs and storms out of the library.

I cast an apologetic glance at Leliana and ask her to bring my dog with her when she leaves for the alienage before chasing after my cousin's retreating back. I need not have worried so much; he does not know the way out, and waits with his back pressed against the wall and his arms crossed over his chest at the end of the hallway. Shianni catches up and Soris frowns at me again.

"Well, lead the way, cousin," he says stiffly.

They fall into step beside me and I lead them out of Eamon's estate through the servant's exit, not wanting to risk running into the guards or Eamon himself. We run into Nigella folding linens in the laundry room along the way, and I take the moment to invite her along with us.

"Oh, no, I can't intrude," she says, ducking her pretty head.

"You wouldn't be intruding. You won't be able to leave until tomorrow morning, though," I say.

Soris smiles. I can somewhat see why some girls find him charming, now. "The more the merrier."

"Just sneak out with Leliana if you can," I say encouragingly. "We don't have much in the alienage, but we do know how to throw a party."

Nigella smiles at that, and her entire slender face brightens as surely as if someone had just lit a candle behind her eyes. "I'll see if I can sneak some bread out of the kitchen," she says, and I laugh in reply and take my cousins out through the side door.

We walk shoulder-to-shoulder through the marketplace and heading towards the alienage. The day is winding down, and the merchants are beginning to put their wares away. Sometimes it pays to haggle at closing, especially for the goods that have a short shelf life, so I pause to strike a bargain for the last few strips of salted beef that my father has a deep fondness for. They are tough and more like chewing on leather, and a strip can keep him busy for a good hour. I worry about his teeth sometimes, but he does not seem to care.

To my surprise, the merchant throws a few links of sausages wrapped in oiled paper in while I pay without even waiting to ask. I draw the line at accepting the dried fish he tries to add to the pile. It is the same fish that goes into city guard stew. We gather our packages and I try to nod my thanks to the merchant without showing the suspicion I feel. He tips his head towards me in something of a bow. "Warden," he says, and I cough and thank him again.

"Did you see that?" Soris whispers as we turn to leave. "A human, bowing to an elf! I can't believe it!"

"He was bowing to a Grey Warden," I say dryly.

"A Grey Warden who's an elf," Soris corrects me.

"Exactly," Shianni agrees, nodding emphatically.

"It probably did look a little weird."

"Weird? It was incredible!" Shianni's eyes roll with excitement. "He looked like he was bowing to a king!"

"I wouldn't go that far."

"I'll tell you what's weird. That elf you invited tonight is weird," Shianni says.

"She's from Redcliffe, if that's what you mean," I reply. "I don't know where she came from before that."

"There's something about her that seems a little...off." Shianni shudders.

"She's pretty, though," Soris interjects.

"She is, isn't she?" I agree. Nigella _is_ very pretty. And not very much "off" at all. I am not sure what Shianni is referring to.

Shianni snorts through her nose. "Well, I don't know what it is. She just doesn't seem entirely there."

I grin. "Everyone isn't entirely there compared to you, cousin."

"Aw, shaddup, you. Big hero." She bumps me with her shoulder. I stagger sideways into Soris and laugh.

We walk the rest of the way to the alienage in comfortable silence. The guard waiting to close the gates looks familiar, although he is not the same one who was posted there when I first returned two days ago. He gives me a piercing look as we pass by and I return his gaze warily. He is young, and is probably another one of the addle-headed spare sons of nobility whose parents are trying to make them a captain of something somewhere, without actually risking their lives. They all seem unhappy to me, but I have no pity for them. They enjoy the perks of being posted near the alienage.

The discontent in this one's eyes means that we will have to keep our distance as we go by. I wonder if I should stay outside to make sure he does not try to bother any of the other elves coming home before the gates close.

But recognition flits across his eyes like a cloud passing by the moon as he looks at me. He snaps to attention abruptly and clutches the pommel of his sword as if he is not sure whether to draw it or not. I feel Shianni and Soris shifting uneasily beside me and step in front of them automatically. I left Starfang in Eamon's library along with my armor, but Fang is within easy reach behind my back.

"You're that damn elf that cost me my job at the Fort!" the guard chokes, and I know where I have seen him before now. I move the packages I hold into the crook of one arm and relax my knees, deliberately shifting my weight to one leg in a casual stance. I spared his life once before. He is still young.

"Glad I didn't do permanent damage," I drawl. "Not bad, finding a place in the city guard."

He fumes. "I ought to kill you right now. That was a good job. I needed it."

I shrug. "You've got yourself a decent job now, too, as far as I can tell."

"Guarding you mud nug knife ears?" He snorts.

"Shem," Shianni mutters bitterly.

He does not hear her, but seems to be reflecting on my words. "At least I don't get choked out here."

"Yes, there is that, isn't there?" I say. "But I wouldn't try anything on any of the elves, if I were you."

"If this is where you came from, I'm more than happy to leave them be," he growls, his brows furrowed beneath his helmet. "Don't need to lose another job. Don't know how you made it out of the Fort, though, 'less you seduced half of the guards before gutting the rest. When I came to, the infirmary was filled to bursting with half-dead folks. Guess you went easy on me. But you killed some good men and women on your way out, you know."

I shrug again. "You're guarding a torture chamber and you expect me to go easy on you?"

"Guess that's a little too much to ask for." His hand has relaxed on his sword by now, and I relax my shoulders as well. "So how did you manage to fight your way out of Fort Drakon by yourself, anyway?"

I cannot help but smile. "Talent?"

Soris, however, guffaws. "They didn't tell you who he is, did they?" he says incredulously.

"Why? 'Sit important?" The guard stares at me with renewed suspicion.

"Not really," I reply quickly. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Shelly," he says. Shianni snorts. I shoot her a quick look over my shoulder and she schools her face into an impassive mask, but her eyes do not stop dancing with suppressed laughter.

"Well, I'm Daen. There's going to be a party tonight. Want to drop by when your shift's done?"

I am sure that Shianni would have slapped me on the back of my head if I had not looked at her moments earlier. This does not stop her from stamping her foot on the ground at my offer.

"I'd better not," Shelly says. His bootheels clink as he shifts them awkwardly against the ground. "Thanks, though."

"Don't mind us if we get a little loud," I say with a quick grin. "Do you mind keeping the gate open a little longer tonight? The party's for me, and it'd be great if everyone could be there."

"I'll get in trouble," he temporizes.

"Well, how about just keeping it open long enough for some of my friends? I'm just waiting for a red-haired human bard, and whoever else she's got with her. You can close the gate after they get here if it's past sundown then."

He grunts. "She's already here. Red-haired bard waltzed right in with most of the crowd ten minutes ago. 'Ad the meanest-looking mabari I've ever clapped eyes on with her, and a dwarf. Probably an elf, too; kind of hard to tell. You all look the same to me."

We must have taken a bit longer than I realized haggling at the market. I smile. "Thanks for letting me know. See you around, Shelly."

"Yeah, ta," he grumbles as we pass by.

Shianni pounces the moment we step onto the bridge. "What's this about you fighting your way out of a fort and seducing and killing half of the guards along the way? Uncle Cyrion didn't say anything about that."

I keep walking. "Shelly back there was the only one I had to seduce. I skipped straight to killing for the rest of them."

"Daen!" Shianni's voice is laced with shock and consternation, and I stop with a sigh and turn to face her. Beside my red-haired cousin, Soris's narrow face is pale and his eyes wide. He looks like how he did whenever I punched him for being stupid when we were little. It is a look I am used to seeing on him. But when I look at Shianni, I see the same expression in her eyes, and my glib response dies on my tongue before the words are even born.

"Nothing happened," I say quickly, and try to make the words sound like I mean them. Nothing did happen, after all. Just bad memories. And nothing compared to what happened two days later. I turn and begin walking again. "I just didn't want to wait around to get tortured, that's all. And guards don't really like prisoners escaping from under their noses. Shelly was watching the cell I was in. I had to get past him somehow."

"So you _seduced _him?" Shianni's voice is so full of disapproval that I frown at the ground.

"_Nothing_ happened," I repeat. "I'm a Warden, Shianni."

"Does that make things better?" she asks angrily. "Wouldn't that at least mean that you've left all of that behind you already?"

"Andraste's blood, Shianni!" I explode. I do not need her to remind me of the shame I felt when Shelly's hands were on me. It is better to forget. "It isn't like I enjoyed it or did it on purpose. I had to get out of Fort Drakon before they had me stretched on a rack."

"Wasn't there another way?"

I put my fist under my chin. "Well, now that you mention it, I didn't try asking nicely."

"Daen, please!" Shianni tucks her package under her arm and puts her hands on mine. "You've always been like this. And you never talk to anyone about anything afterwards. Can't you at least try? Just tell us what's going on. You shouldn't...you shouldn't be doing these kinds of things. Not for anyone or anything."

How dare she? I can hear Zevran's voice in my head, asking what we are doing here in this pit, huddled together in fear. I shake her hands from mine.

"I had to do something!" I snarl. "Someone has to fight back! And it might as well be me."

"We _do_ fight, cousin." Soris's voice is so uncharacteristically calm that I fall silent immediately. "All of that talk about a plague, and the 'healers'—there was a plague, sure, but it wasn't just one of the spring diseases that brought the gates down. It was us fighting back. For Shianni. For you. It ate us all alive. They closed the gates on us pretty quick and only opened them to let the Tevinters in. They couldn't spare their own guards for a total purge, but what else do you do with elves except get rid of the ones who fight back? That's why Elder Valendrian was one of the first to go—and Valora. _Your_ fiancée ran back to Highever with the dowry the first chance she got, but Valora stayed for me. Fat lot of good it did her." He laughs bitterly. "Shianni used your trick with hiding in the _vhenedhal_ whenever a 'healer' started to look at her funny, but I wouldn't be surprised if they would have burned it down eventually to get her. And to be honest, I was sure Uncle Cyrion was dead by the time you showed up."

"Why...why didn't you tell me any of this earlier?" I ask. My anger is gone so thoroughly I cannot even remember why it existed to begin with. They both look at me, Soris with his hands clasped behind his back, Shianni with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Because we didn't want you to worry about us," Shianni says quietly. "You can't stop a plague; you just have to wait them out. But a purge? We know you—you'll take on humans, no matter who they are or what they can do."

I cannot look at either of them. "I wish you had told me this earlier."

Shianni shrugs. "What would that have done? You're a Warden now, Daen. We can't hold you back from doing what you have to do."

"It was a purge," I say weakly. "I turned myself in after the wedding to keep that from happening."

"And that's why we did it," Soris says. "You shouldn't have to keep giving things up for us, Daen."

"Hey, you know we were due for a purge any day now anyway," Shianni chimes in with a levity I do not share. "And we've been learning our lesson. Some of us had a lot of time on our hands during the 'plague,' so it isn't as though we're going to be completely helpless from now on. Soris remembered something he found in Lady Efana's collection a long time ago—something about an elf who freed the elves from the Tevinters. So we just took a page from his book—"

"Not literally," Soris interjects hastily. "Lady Efana would kill me."

"—and we've been sort of making some weapons out of whatever we have. Alarith's been smuggling some things in. And did you know barrels make decent bows, if you're willing to work on them a little bit?" Shianni grins. "Of course, not everyone's on board, but after the slavers—well, a lot more of us are tired of being treated like sheep. Asher's gotten really good with setting traps. He's got a knack with tripwires. And Uncle Cyrion's actually our best archer! You should see the size of the targets he can hit at fifty paces!"

"_Dad_ is?" I cannot conceal my shock.

"Well, he's actually got his own bow, so that might help—I didn't know he had one, did you?"

I shake my head, dumbfounded. Where was he hiding it all of these years in our one-room house? No wonder he always insisted on being the one in charge of dusting and sweeping.

"He isn't so great when he isn't wearing his spectacles, so we'll just have to hope he never gets those knocked off of his nose. And, I mean, most of us wouldn't be able to hold a candle to a single guardsman in a one-on-one fight, even the poncy noble ones. We're still too weak for that. But Soris has been working on some coordinating attacks—"

"Mostly just corner-and-pin-them." Soris looks at his toes modestly.

Shianni throws an annoyed look at him for the second interruption. "—and they're pretty brilliant. Once we figure out how to close the gates on our own, we'll be able to withstand another purge, I'm sure of it."

"You've even been working on the gates?" I ask.

"Well, it's mostly up to Alarith, and he's pretty busy already between running his store and going out for more inventory. But he's got the basic mechanism down and he thinks he'll be able to rig it to close from the inside if it comes to it—and stay closed until we open it again."

"And guess who the leader is," Soris says.

Shianni frowns and some color rises in her cheeks. "I'm not the—"

He grins at her obvious embarrassment. "She's at the head of _everything_."

"I don't believe it." I stare at them. It is all I can do to keep my jaw from dropping in astonishment. "You're all...you're fighting back. I never thought—I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Shianni says softly. "A lot of us still remember Aunt Adaia. It's hard to forget her, and how she died. To be honest, we wouldn't be doing any of this if it wasn't for you."

I do not understand and look at them quizzically, torn between asking the question and simply giving in to the tears I feel in the corners of my eyes.

Soris lets out a blustering sigh between his thin lips. "Look, Shianni and I—we knew what you were doing. With the humans, I mean, and long before Aunt Adaia died. We never told anyone and we never confronted you about it because we...we were afraid. But Maker help me, Daen, I wish we had. I wish you hadn't felt like you had to face all of that on your own."

Shianni's hands are warm and gentle as she lays them on my arms and turns me towards her. "Haven't we always protected one another?" she asks. Soris puts his arms around our shoulders and we stand there, arms touching arms and my vision gone to Oblivion from the blur my tears bring to my eyes.

"I'm sorry I named my dog after you, Soris," I finally say shakily, and start to laugh as waves of relief run through my bones.

"You'd better be," Soris snorts as Shianni laughs into my hair, and I feel their arms tighten around me. I lift my arms and return the embrace as much as I can.

We are interrupted by the sound of pattering feet. "What are you three doing?" Asher demands. We break away immediately, and I cannot help but stare at Asher's hands—they had once been quick-fingered and nearly as good as my mother's at embroidery, but he had all but destroyed them at the docks unloading crates and barrels full of merchandise for the markets. I was glad that he was putting them to a different use now. "It's nearly dusk. The party's starting the minute the gates close, you know. Everyone's scared you're going to get locked out, and we're really not sure what to do with the dwarf."

"Oh, Maker, I hope Oghren hasn't gotten himself thrown out already," I say as we fall into step behind Asher. "So who else is there?"

"A red-haired _shem_ minstrel, your dog, an elf who says she's from Redcliffe—oh, and some muscle-bound Antivan elf who's got all of the girls and half of the aunties swooning at his fancy feet. Where'd you find that one?"

I nearly trip over my own feet at that and Shianni sends me a questioning look as she catches me with a hand under my arm. Zevran is here? Why? Andraste help me, I do not know if I will be able to stand watching him flirt with the entire alienage tonight. Or being anywhere within earshot of him. Or being near him at all.

The gates clatter shut in the distance. Shianni and Soris propel me forward, and I cannot turn back now. Nor would I be able to excuse myself. It is so rare for the alienage to have a reason to celebrate anything—and Maker knows when I will be able to see them this happy and carefree again after I leave Denerim tomorrow.

I have gotten myself out of so many traps before. Tonight, I tell myself, all I have to do is not get caught.

* * *

_Oh my gosh. _Fanficfan_, I am blushing. You have no idea. Thank you._

_Thanks also to all the new followers/favoriters!_

_Until next time._

_-K_


	11. Chapter 11

_Note: Long chapter ahead. Apologies._

* * *

CHAPTER 11

We are alive tonight. The air throbs with the buzz of my family thrumming around the _vhenedhal_, and my heart races when the excited murmur of their voices fills my ears. Faces turn and mouths open in smiles and greetings as I round the corner behind Asher and with Shianni and Soris at my side, and I return their grins while my heart shivers quietly as I survey the crowd. It is the first time that I have seen them all together at once in more than a year, and there are far fewer of us than I had hoped to see. I had not realized how many of us had been lost to the slavers when I watched them all come home two days ago.

Elder Valendrian should have been standing on the stage, waiting for us all to arrive. He always helped to begin the festivities by leading the first round of musicians on his pipe. There is a dusty keg of ale standing in his place instead, a loosely woven wreathe of thin branches from the _vhenedhal_'s brittle winter boughs placed upon its head. I do not know yet if Loghain has survived the Joining, but if he has, I swear that he will be repaying his debt to my family until his Calling. I would even resist mine to see him dead at the end of his first.

It is an unspoken rule that we all rotate "jobs" during festivals, so that no one is doing one thing all night. If you are not eating, then you are playing one of the instruments in the band; if you are not dancing, then you are posted by one of the fires, making sure that nothing catches and burns the alienage down. Doing it this way ensures that everyone can enjoy most of the night, because festival nights are few and far in between. There is no official rotation. We slip in where we can, although some may end up taking multiple rounds at the band if they are particularly good musicians. The dancing can only continue for as long as there is music, after all, and almost everyone in the alienage wants to dance.

There is always at least one good fiddler or piper on stage sharing the melody between them. The melody is the blood of decent dancing music; it keeps the dance circle around the _vhenedhal_ flowing. But the most important instrument is the drum, and there is always at least one drummer with a good sense of rhythm leading the other drummers and keeping the beat. That is my first job. I am pulled to the stage before I could blink. I have always liked playing the drum; I know I have a decent knack for rhythm, so I usually lead when it is my turn to play. And there is something very mesmerizing about playing the drum while watching the dance circle turn and spin before me. It sparkles like the jewels in a crown from the firelight shining on the sweat on my family's upturned faces. The sight never fails to set my mind at ease.

A cousin hops up on stage a handful of songs later, and I turn my drum and stick over to her and slide off of the platform to join Shianni and Soris at their post by one of the fires near the food tables. Someone tosses me a tin cup as I pass by—it will find its way back to its owner by tomorrow afternoon—and I help myself to the already half-empty keg of ale, perched between a basket of apples and a pile of what is probably day-old loaves of bread from the noble household someone works for. My cousins open a space between them and I nest myself with their shoulders against mine.

The ale has been spiced and is chill from sitting in the winter air, but it tingles on my tongue as I swallow it all in three gulps and head back for more. Shianni tosses an apple at me after I resettle myself between them. "Good stuff, isn't it?" she says. "The Arl of Redcliffe sent it! Can you believe it?"

"He did?" I ask, incredulous.

"Well, that's what the elf that came with your friends said. She also brought the bread—nice of her."

I catch Nigella hovering near the edge of the dance circle, her hands clasped behind her back and her neck craned as if she is not sure if she is in the right place. I suppose they do not have many dances in Redcliffe. A flash of red hair leans near her, and hands push her into the circling crowd where she disappears with her slender arms hooked in another one of my cousin's. Leliana throws her head back and laughs, and the silver sound causes many heads to turn towards her as if she carries the entire band's melody in her laugh alone.

Another voice joins her, golden and carefree, and my heart stands still.

Like me, my companions have left their armor behind. Leliana wears one of her elegant Orlesian tunics, and Oghren staggers past in the same sweat-stained shirt and pants that he always wears. And then there is just wheat hair and bronze skin wearing a black sleeveless vest, and I wonder again how long I will last avoiding him entirely tonight.

He stands with Leliana next to the musicians, leonine and relaxed, whispering something into her ear. She rears back, laughing and miming dumping her mug of ale over his head. They are a striking pair together, their hair catching the fire like they are made of flame themselves and drawing many a glance from the elves around them. I wish I had not seen them.

Shianni bumps me with her shoulder. "So what's going on with you and the Crow?"

"Nothing," I say automatically, and bite into the apple she handed me. It is half the size of my palm and a day past its prime, but still good. I wonder who managed to get their hands on three bushels of those apples. It is rare enough to see even a wormy apple core in the alienage, let alone an entire apple, and the children are digging their little fists into the baskets and devouring the russet globes like they are the finest candies in the world.

Shianni's question makes my eyes seek out Zevran again before I can stop them. He turns his head and catches my gaze, and I look down quickly, my ears burning.

"He was practically perching on top of you when you came over for my Denerim rabbit stew. Even Soris had an idea that something was up. Of course, he still nearly died when I told him exactly what _I _thought was going on, but he's recovered nicely, don't you think?" She plucks the remainder of the apple from my unresisting hand and eats the rest in two clean bites, licking her fingers free of the juice and neatly spitting the seeds and stem aside.

Soris rolls his eyes and tosses me another apple, even smaller than the one Shianni stole and so mealy that my mouth is parched in a minute trying to swallow the little grains. I take a swig of ale from my tin while my cousins face off. "_I_ nearly died?" Soris says. "_You_ were the one babbling like an egg-bound hen. I was just...surprised, okay?"

I swallow. "What else have you two figured out that you haven't told me about?" I demand, blushing despite myself.

Shianni shrugs. "Nothing much, honest. So how come the Crow isn't all over you today? Uncle Cyrion mentioned a fight. Is that still going on?"

"Something like that," I say distantly, sipping ale. "I think we're done."

"Really?" She gives me her most skeptical look, one red brow raised and her lip twisted in a reflection if it. "Are you sure? You've been giving him some interesting looks. I'm surprised he hasn't caught on fire yet."

I blush again. "I have not."

"And he's been looking at you, too, when you aren't looking. He's hard to read, but nobody looks at someone as often as he does if they aren't interested." She ponders. "Either that, or they really hate someone's guts."

"Thank you for that," I say dryly. "I'm going to go with 'hates my guts.'"

"Come on, cousin." Shianni shakes her head. "I've never seen you look at someone like that before. It's a little weird that he's...well, a _he_, but—"

"—but she still nearly brought down Uncle Cyrion's roof with her squeal—"

She elbows Soris in the side sharply and he spits his mouthful of stew back up into his bowl. "But it isn't as though there's anything in the Chant that says you two can't be together. It's just the whole kids thing and...you know, everything else. I wouldn't go kissing him in front of the alienage, but that's beside the point. Anyway, I may not know what the two of you have between you now, but it's as clear as day that it isn't done."

"I might not be an expert in love or anything, but I've read a lot about it," Soris pipes up. I groan. "Hey, hear me out. There's a lot of love poetry that's honestly just beautiful. I'll read you some when this Blight business is over with."

"Do any of them start with something like 'the song I see in thee'?" I ask before I can help it.

"Uh, maybe. I can't say I remember one specifically."

"And why are you reading love poems, Soris?" Shianni eyes him suspiciously. "This doesn't have anything to do with Lady Efana's granddaughter, does it?"

Soris flushes. "No! Andraste's arse, forget the poetry! What I was saying was that the love stories always follow the same path—you know, they meet, they fall in love, they fight, they go apart for a bit, they meet again, and then it's true love and happily ever after. You're in the apart stage, that's all."

"Insightful."

"Really," Shianni chimes in.

"Come on, three hundred years of storytelling can't be that wrong, can it? Lady Efana's got quite a collection, you know."

"And quite a granddaughter, I've heard," Shianni mutters.

Soris ignores her. "What I'm trying to say is that Shianni's right. I don't think you two are really _over_ just yet—although I would also advise you not to, you know, be affectionate in front of the alienage. Just keep it...er, private, okay?" He sits up, suddenly alert. "Hey, I think that's my signal. Time for things to get fun."

I sigh as Soris abandons us for the stage, grabbing the fiddle from the cousin he is replacing and fitting it neatly under his chin. I had not expected total acceptance, and they were truthfully far more understanding than I thought they would be. They probably would have still had a problem if it had been Morrigan. The alienage would not have approved of anything except a female elf. Neither, now that I thought of it, would most of Ferelden, just as Taliesen had said. Zevran once mentioned how prudish he found Fereldans in comparison to Antivans, and that had only made me imagine running off to Antiva with him just so that we would be able to be together in public without raised brows or narrowed eyes directed our way.

And it is not just Antiva, I know. Leliana had Marjolaine. And I have heard that even the Free Marches do not care so much. The Marches are just across the Waking Sea! It looks so close on Eamon's maps, and is much closer to us than Antiva and Orlais. Zev and I could go anywhere in the world and be together it seems like, if I did not have to be here.

Alistair's reaction the first time he saw me coming out of Zev's tent had been bad enough—he had been utterly flummoxed, his eyes bugging out of his head and his face redder than a fish's gill, and stuttered so furiously that I could not understand half of what he said. But then again, that could have been because of his Chantry upbringing. He was particularly sheltered, even though I know that neither templar trainees nor templars are exactly celibate. Or at least they are not at the Pearl. But I have always liked that about him.

It was a bad idea to remember Alistair now. I feel the smile fade from my eyes. Shianni peers at me, concern in her face.

"Come on, cheer up, Daen," Shianni says anxiously. She pours the contents of her own wooden cup into my empty tin. "I'm sure you two will be back together soon."

I let out a laugh that sounds impossibly glum and down her contribution in a single gulp.

"I know what you need." Shianni deposits her cup into the apple basket and stands, gathering her skirt in one hand and grabbing mine with the other. "Time to dance, cousin!"

"Dancing doesn't solve anything," I grumble as she tugs me to my feet.

"Maybe," she says over her shoulder, dragging me into the throng of elves spinning arm-in-arm before us. "But it can make things feel a lot better!"

Shianni loves to dance, and is easily one of the best dancers in the entire alienage. She has always claimed that I could be a good dancer if I tried a little. I have never seen much of a purpose to it. Anyone can do elven dancing as long as they have reasonable coordination, a halfway decent memory, and can pay attention to music, which changes depending on what dance set you are supposed to do. Most sets are simple and very repetitive, and involve clapping, some kicking and jumping, and a lot of linking hands and arms and almost swinging one's way around the dance circle. The point is to work together in the expanding and contracting knot of dancers—making a mistake is usually not fatal to the rest of the dance, but depending on how bad it is, it can take some time to work oneself back into the circle. There are a few sets that are too complicated for me to even want to try to remember, but those are usually reserved for performances that feature the actual dancers in the alienage rather than a mass gathering like this, where everyone from the eldest aunty down to the few babies that have survived the winter so far are crammed around the _vhenedhal_.

I lose Shianni quickly in the whirl of elven bodies, stolen from her grasp by another cousin who laughs at me with warm brown eyes and tells Shianni not to hog me all to herself. It does not take long for me to discover an unlikely side effect of my Grey Warden abilities: I am a much better dancer than I remember myself being, able to keep the beat without having to look to others for cues and not tripping or weaving the wrong way even once. Light and colors intermingle until I cannot keep the two apart as I exchange hands and spin again. My father's pipe trills in tandem with a soaring note Soris scales up to on his fiddle, and the drummers barely touch their sticks to the stretched surfaces balance on their knees for longer than a pattering breath. My senses are nearly overwhelmed, but I cannot drown in all of this; I dance in a sea that is wholly alive and filled with hands that keep me buoyant at the surface.

I laugh without realizing it and the aunt I have just linked arms with looks at me and beams, grabbing my cheek between her thumb and forefinger. "There's Adaia's smile," she says, and releases me as her arm is taken by another dancer, flowing away together into the crowd.

During a lull in the music, with our feet kept moving only by a single drummer, I catch a glimpse of Shianni's red-copper hair near the musicians' platform, but cannot look at her long enough to see what she is doing before the beat changes and I am flung around the _vhenedhal_ again. The circle around the _vhenedhal_ changes direction with every change in the music. There are so many bodies that dancing alongside them makes me warmer than the ale that I have been drinking, or even the warmth of standing beside a fire.

Familiar hands slip into mine, and I almost lose the beat when I look up and meet Leliana's gentle eyes. She has no problem insinuating herself into the weave of dancers, and returns my gaze steadily.

"I wish only to tell you that I am here for you," she says before I can say anything. "I have seen things as a bard. I have also had things done to me that I often wish to forget. There was a time when I did not know who owned my body, and so it simply made sense to me to give it up to the Maker."

I am speechless, remembering her nervousness over the past few days and wishing that I had spoken with her sooner. Did seeing me in the Arl's estate bring back bad memories?

"Be well, Daen. I am glad to see you so at ease tonight."

She slips away, and Shianni suddenly appears in front of me again, her blue eyes snapping with the mischievous spark that has always meant she has just had an idea. She is at her most beautiful when she has one of her ideas, and I have always gone along with whatever comes out of her mouth next without thinking twice. She grabs my hands again and bobs forward, planting a sloppy kiss on my forehead. Andraste's heart, it is as wet as a mabari kiss! She must have sneaked a few more cups of ale while I was dancing.

"What're you up to now?" I shout over the drums.

"You'll see," she shouts back, and I hoist my brows high.

The music changes, and I let out an incredulous laugh as I recognize the patter of the drumbeat and the notes that jump from my father's pipe. Shianni swings me around, her feet skipping as if we stand on hot coals. "Brat!" I say, and she laughs.

"So you do remember this one, cousin?" she cries, and releases one of my hands to spin herself out and in again until her back is tucked against my chest.

How could I forget it? It is one of the few partner dances, and never fails to devolve into a contest between couples every time it is performed. There are no official sets, other than a few traditional ones to choose from. Each participant in a pair takes turns leading, switching as the music changes. The unofficial goal in this dance, however, is to dance so cleanly that no one can tell who is leading whom. The pair that dances the most fluidly wins, although there are usually no prizes other than applause. I remember the months Shianni had spent hounding me to practice with her when she was just seven. I was far more interested in training with my mother then, but was also so thoroughly twisted around Shianni's little finger by then that I could not even try to say no. We had not come even close to winning, but her grin had been worth it.

Shianni indicates that I should lead first, and I decide to open with one of the easier sets—one of the few that I remember, actually—and hope that Shianni does not try anything that I cannot follow as I turn the dance over to her on the change in tune.

The melody slows. Shianni lifts her hand and places it on my shoulder only a hair before my hand slips around her torso to rest midway on her back. Thank Andraste I know this one. We turn in place only a few inches from one another. I look into her eyes to catch her next cue, and she smiles at me with them in reply.

"You know, after you left, I didn't have anyone to dance with anymore," she whispers. Her fingers dance down my arm and we step forward together, falling into line behind another couple. "Soris is a terrible dancer. He's got two left feet. And Alarith was too busy to do much of anything. I just wanted to dance. I knew it would help..." She fades.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," I say quietly. She signals for a turn, and I follow her without missing a beat.

"Not everything is your fault, Daen. Especially not that time. Either you left, or you'd have rotted to death in a cell." Shianni is quiet for a few measures of music, and I wonder if she, like me, would rather forget that moment in her past. "I did wish I had someone to talk to, though. Someone who I trusted and...and who'd...been through the same thing. No one else except Soris knew, but every time they looked at me...it felt like they did. I felt...like I didn't own my own body anymore."

"I know," I reply.

She glances at me, and a brief look of relief mixed with terror flashes across her eyes. I know that look, if only because I have seen it staring back at me in puddles of water and the flat sides of swords.

"I'll be here until tomorrow, you know. If you want to talk..."

"I might," she says. "Daen, how do you...keep going?"

I remember Wynne's scolding words when I came to her after Taliesen. "I'm not really sure that I do. I'm just...surviving."

She laughs. The sound is not the carefree, strident chuckle I grew up listening for around corners. It is a little more reserved, a little sadder—but beneath that, like the pebbled ground that lies below the wavering surface of Lake Calenhad's clear shallows, I still hear my Shianni.

I bring her into my chest in a quick one-armed hug, stopping us midstep to do so. It means that we have most likely lost the contest, but I do not care. "We'll be fine, Shianni. We don't just survive, you and me. We're fighters. We all are, in our own ways. But you'd know better than me, resistance leader."

"Oh, shut up." But she hugs me back. "Love you, cousin."

"I love you, too."

We move to the side and spend the rest of the competition drinking and eating. Shianni takes her turn on the stage when the music ends, and I down two more cups of the steadily depleting ale supply and pour myself a third. I raise my eyes just in time to catch Zevran staring at me again, and cough and turn around quickly.

A peal of childish laughter erupts from below the food table, and I duck my head beneath to find my mabari spread flat on his stomach below, a suffering expression in his eyes and a gaggle of young girls stuck to his nose. He spots me immediately and lifts his head, his tail wagging hopefully.

"Come on, Soris. Let's go find somewhere quiet to rest a little."

He _whuffs_ and slithers out from beneath the table. I turn to the disappointed girls and grin apologetically. "He's a wardog, girls. Cuddling isn't really his thing."

The eldest, more closely related to Shianni than she is to me, pouts. "You're no fun, Daen."

I clap a hand to my heart. "Ouch, Aila! That hurts! Excuse me while I go get drunk."

"You already are," she calls after me as I emerge from under the table. "Almost as bad as your dwarf friend!"

Oghren, I can see, is more or less collapsed against the base of the _vhenedhal_ at this point. But that is to be expected of him, particularly when there is free drink flowing almost everywhere he turns. I sigh and scratch Soris behind his crooked ears and lead him to the margins of the festivities, weaving a little along the way. Aila was probably right. I have lost count of how many cups I have had so far. It was really very kind of Eamon to send all of the ale along tonight.

I find myself standing at the base of one of the scaffolds along the side of the multiple-level homes. The wooden steps and platforms function as stairs to reach the higher levels of the buildings, as there is only ceiling and solid floor between each level. This way, we are able to add another floor and another flight of stairs on top of the previous one without having to worry about connecting the lower floors inside the building. In theory, we should be able to, at least—there has been no construction in my entire life. We never have enough materials.

The scaffolds are probably the second highest points in the alienage after the _vhenedhal_. I will not be able to reach the _vhenedhal_ today, not with the dance circle going around it. And I do need to get higher up and hopefully alone, just to clear my spinning head a little.

I leave Soris to guard the base of the steps and stagger up the stairs until I am at the highest level three flights up. I perch on the edge of the platform and finish off my tin of ale, kicking my legs over the edge like a child as I watch the circle weave below me. The constant movement makes me feel a little dizzy, though, so I fall on my back and pillow my head beneath my hands, staring up at the patch of sky I can see beneath the eaves of the roof hanging partially over me instead.

The stars are clear tonight, and the waning moon does little to obscure them with its own fading light. Alistair had once pointed out a certain arrangement that he said was supposed to be some kind of dragon, although it looked more like a giant spoon to me. Zevran, not to be outdone, pointed to a different cluster of stars and announced that they reminded him of the aftermath of sex. Alistair and I both stared hard at the flowing path of stars, which seemed to be swimming in a river of cloudy milk, and had no idea what he meant. Alistair, I am sure, never figured it out. I asked for clarification later on. And I got it.

Zevran never does stop. Or at least not until I push him away.

The scaffold creaks behind me, and I sit up and turn too late. But there is nowhere for me to escape to up here, anyway. He is already standing almost next to me. I often forget how quiet he can be until he has nearly given me a heart attack sneaking up on me.

Zevran drops down beside me and drapes his arm over my shoulders, pulling me towards him like he is greeting an old friend. Despite the innocence of the gesture, my heart begins to race like Soris after a rabbit with the heat of his body spreading through me. Perhaps it is the cool winter air that makes him feel warmer against me than usual. I think he is in his cups as well, his half-filled tankard loose in his hands and his breath smelling strongly of ale, but he is at least not roaring drunk like Oghren is right now. I did not know the ale was that strong—I had been drinking the stuff all night and still did not feel much of anything.

Or did I? My face was beginning to warm as well, and with the rush of heat, I feel a little dizzy. I am suddenly aware of the hardness of the scaffold I sit on, and the way it creaks beneath us. I am glad for the dim lighting up here—it conceals everything, especially flushes.

Leliana's voice launches into "Dane and the Werewolf," and I glance down to see her on the stage, clapping her hands and leading the drummers' own rhythms. I do not know if she was pulled up on stage or if she joined herself, but I do love hearing her sing. And it is the first time I have heard her singing with a full accompaniment.

"A fine place," Zevran slurs, interrupting my thoughts and his arm heavy on me. "Very nice to watch from up here. And a fine party, too."

"Glad you like it," I reply, and pull the tankard from his hands before it can drop on an unsuspecting uncle's head twenty feet below. I set it out of his reach behind me. "How many of those did you have?"

"Not many. Maybe. I do not know. I think maybe a dozen or so."

"That's all?"

"Oghren said I could not drink more. _Oghren_ did! It was a wound to my pride! So I challenged him to a drinking contest and then I lost count."

Oh, dear. They had probably cleaned out Eamon's entire supply between the two of them. I laugh and he scoops my neck under his arm and digs his knuckles into the top of my head. "Amusing, is it?" he says over my head, although I can barely hear him over the heavy beats of his heart pressed right against my ear. I close my eyes and listen to the sound, trapped within the noise so thoroughly that I do not know when he stops digging at my head until I realize that he has, and simply holds it against his chest, cradling it there like a swaddled infant.

"Zev?" I venture when he does not move, and although I am loathe to do so, I raise my head to look up at him, wondering if he has fallen asleep upright like Oghren does sometimes.

He is looking down at me, half smile and lazy eyes visible even in the dim light, and does not say anything. He lets me break away from his grasp and sit upright again.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

"Perfectly fine. _Com un ciamba di amora_."

I recognize the last word and cannot help shivering, although I have no idea what else he has just said. "I'll take your word for it."

Below us, Leliana finishes "Dane and the Werewolf" and bows with a deep flourish of her arms to thunderous applause. It seems that most of the alienage has managed to get itself drunk, despite Oghren and Zev.

"Sing something else," a voice shouts hoarsely. I peer down and see Uncle Tormey drop his cupped hands from his mouth. He has been drinking as hard as anyone else, but he has good reason to; everyone knew how much he treasured his daughter Nola, who had been a bridesmaid at my wedding. I still remember the guards at the Arl of Denerim's estate standing around her corpse and wondering whether she was still warm enough. The memory makes me shiver again, but this time with a chill that Zevran beside me cannot overcome.

Leliana smiles. "One more, then, but it will be the last one, yes?"

The crowd roars their approval, and she takes a sip from the filled mug at her feet. She turns and pulls a hard case from the shadows near the back of the stage, and I recognize the odd shape of her lap harp case. I sit up eagerly, along with many of my cousins. We have but one harp in the entire alienage, and no one knows how to play it. And Leliana can pull magic from her harp's two dozen strings.

The lead drummer stands, offering her his stool, and she takes it with a smile of thanks and seats herself with the harp's shoulder drawn up to her chest and its base nestled in her lap. The crowd stills as she plucks a few strings, checking the tuning and running her hand briefly along the arch of her harp's neck with the affection I use to stroke Soris's back.

"Would it be presumptuous of me to share an elven tune I learned?" she asks. "It is a song the Dalish sing at their funerals, perhaps a bit sobering for this occasion. But in death there is much reason for life to be found, as there is here all around us. When those we love pass on before us, we celebrate the life they lived and the lives they gave to us, no?"

"Sing it for us, minstrel," I hear Shianni call. She sounds a bit high up—perhaps she is sitting in the boughs of the _vhenedhal_, although I cannot see her through its snowy branches from where we are on the scaffold.

Leliana sends a glowing smile upwards into the _vhenedhal_, confirming Shianni's location, and slides her arched fingers across the strings of her harp. The pure notes climb even to my ears high above, and I close my eyes and listen, drinking in the otherworldly sound as her clear soprano entwines with the notes from her harp. If the Archdemon's song sounded like this, even I would have a hard time ignoring it for long.

"Odd to hear a human singing in Elvish to a gathering made up only of elves who can't understand what she's saying," Zevran says beside me, interrupting my reverie. "And one very drunk dwarf."

"And one very drunk elf," I add, opening my eyes.

"Not I. Unless you are referring to yourself? You are quite warm." He touches his bare hand to my forehead. If I am warm, then he is even warmer; it feels like his hand is a brand on my flesh.

I cannot think of a reason to politely escape his touch and sit frozen beneath his hand. "Warden circulation is very good," I explain lamely. "But you're right. This is probably the first time most of them have heard entire sentences in Elvish. It was for me, when she sang it for us."

"And it is for I, as well." He takes his hand away and places it on his lap, just inches away from my leg. I remember that we still had yet to meet in those days spent working out of the Brecilian and toward the Circle Tower. His ambush came when we were not even halfway there. Maker, it actually feels like I have known him forever.

My forehead still feels as hot as if his hand still rests there, and I snatch up the tankard I took from him and take a deep gulp from it to buy myself time while I calm myself and think of something else to talk about. I nearly gag on the mouthful before swallowing it, and then gag again on the aftertaste—Oghren must have mixed some of his own brew into it.

"My mother hated humans for a really long time," I finally blurt. "But one day she came home from one of her jobs and told me that humans maybe weren't as bad as she thought they were. She was murdered a week later, but I've always wondered what happened that made her change her mind so quickly." I let Leliana's voice fill my ears for a moment. "Do you ever wonder what it would take to make you change so completely that everything you thought was true the day before is completely on its head one day later?"

"Sometimes you speak in fancy words that I do not understand," Zev remarks in a dreamy singsong. He really is drunk! No wonder he is here with me now. I glance sideways at him and our eyes meet and hold one another. My throat goes so dry that I can barely swallow. He is not drunk. And I cannot sit here pretending that yesterday did not happen any longer.

I hoist my legs up from where they dangle over the edge of the platform and stand, stepping away towards the stairs. He follows me, strangely steady on his feet for someone as sodden as he surely is. "Just stay there," I say quickly. "You're fine."

"Am I?" Somehow I do not see the shadow of his hand moving until it is covering the left side of my face, his fingers caressing my earlobe. I twitch and flinch away.

"What are you doing?" I demand stiffly.

"Just wondering how you would look with some decoration in your ear."

I scoff. "Like a pirate."

"Hmm." He slinks towards me again. "You are a little pale to be a pirate."

I step back in response and eye him. What is he up to? He could not have forgotten yesterday already. "What do you want?" I ask desperately. He just takes another step forward, his eyes utterly inaccessible. I back away again.

My mind changes tactics and takes command of my tongue before I can stop. "You know, the last time I was up here, it was to give a quick fuck to some templar the same age as my dad," I say deliberately. I feel my lips curve into a smirk I have not worn for at least three years. "Is that what you're looking for?"

He stops his slow advance. "No," he says. He almost sounds shocked. It worked, I think to myself, half relieved, half bitter. I have never been above saying anything I had to, just to get what I wanted.

"Then just leave me alone, Zevran," I say quietly. It is a warning just as much as it is a plea for him to listen to me. Drunk or not, I am a hair away from punching him straight in his nose.

He does not move. I turn on my heel and head straight for the steps that will take me away from him.

The alienage drowns in applause, and that is probably why no one hears it when Zevran hauls me backwards with his arms hooked under mine and a leg sweeping through my knees, and tips me flat on my back before I have even a toe on the first step down. I land on him with a crash that should have shaken the entire scaffold down to its feet, and wonder for one heart stopping moment if it is about to collapse and flatten half of the alienage along the way. But I feel nothing beneath me—nothing except for Zev, who is laughing like a maniac in my ear. He _is_ drunk. I think. And I might be, too.

I squirm against him and he holds me tighter. For all my resolve of avoiding the trap, I have been well and truly caught.

"Lie still. Relax, Warden," he croons. "You are always in a hurry to go somewhere. I can never understand why."

"Do the words 'Fifth Blight' mean anything to you?" I growl.

"That they do. And you have until tomorrow morning to resume addressing it. The gates are closed until dawn, no?"

I say nothing to that, because I have nothing to respond with. He is right about the gates, may Oblivion lead him straight to the gates of the Black City.

"Enjoy the now while you have it, Warden."

I feign relaxing until I feel his arms loosen, and twist free of him immediately. He tangles his legs around mine as I stand and pulls me back to him, and I throw myself to the side to avoid falling into his grasp again. His legs are far more muscled than mine and could probably hold me down for longer than I have the strength to struggle, and I cannot let him get on top of me, as I know he will simply squash me flat to keep me from escaping again. But knowledge does not keep this from being anything but a losing battle. He rolls over me while I try to worm away and pins my arms faster than Leliana can loose an arrow. Before I know it, he has lowered his chest to mine and leans just enough to make me gasp for air.

Andraste's tits. Is it possible that he is even more agile when he is in his cups than when he is sober? It must be some sort of secret Crow technique. Either that, or Oghren's stuff is magic.

I hear laughter drift below us and my heart skips a beat. It sounds like the celebration is over. I know Elva used to sleep up on this scaffold when she could not stand her husband, but the Tevinters had taken her. Has someone else taken her place already?

As if in reply to my thoughts, the stairs creak as someone begins to wend their way up towards us. Soris is on far too good behavior tonight; if it had been anyone except one of my relatives, he would have stopped them with his fangs in their boots. I slap my palm over Zevran's mouth when he suddenly leans in too close to my face and push him away. My sudden attack must have surprised him because he rolls away immediately, and I sit up and scramble to my feet, crouching alert in the dim light and glancing around for somewhere to hide.

"Hey, Asher, your mom's looking for you!"

Shianni. Andraste bless you, cousin. She must be able to see everything from the _vhenedhal_—not the most comforting revelation, but I would rather it be her than anyone else. The stairs creak again as feet rapidly descend the steps, and I hear Asher skip the last few steps and hit the ground running. He is probably trying to find another hiding spot.

I follow the sound of feet down the stairs, staggering along as quickly as I can. My head is spinning and the steps do not always seem to appear beneath my feet where I expect them to be. When I hear his footsteps behind me, I turn on the landing with one hand outstretched, my tongue poised to tell him to stop following me. But he is closer than I expected, and closer again—so close that I cannot even blink before he grabs my wrist and backs me up against the wall of the building the scaffold is built against. The glow of fire cast on my cousins' heads and leaking between the skeletal bars of the scaffolding disappears behind amber eyes, and then even those disappear behind heavy bronze lids and strands of wheat hair. His mouth closes in and I taste the ale on his breath and his tongue against mine, slipping between my lips as easily as a knife through unarmored flesh and pinning my words to the back of my throat before they can escape into air.

I have felt his tongue everywhere else but there. My knees fold beneath me with the waves of electricity that radiate through me from my core. His other hand slides down my back and catches me at the small of it, and my own hands climb his back to cling to his shoulderblades, clutching the cloth between them and drawing him closer towards me until I feel the lines between us no longer.

His initially rough kiss turns gentle against my mouth the moment I stop struggling, and I find myself returning it without thinking. It is like drinking the pure aftermath of the ale in my stomach, sweet and hot and setting my head spinning with every draught I take. This must be what Antivan brandy tastes like, I think through the haze.

The scaffold seems to sway beneath our feet, and the wall behind my back shudders. Both threaten to collapse and let us fall. The only things that keep us upright are our hands on one another. I open my eyes and am dizzied by the patches of firelight shining through Zev's hair, brighter even than the sun at noon. The world is on fire, burning around us. And I would let it all happen for this moment to last.

I do not even know when the tears start. They have been threatening to spill from me all day, and I suppose they had nowhere else to go at this point, driven to overflowing by the amount of alcohol I have been putting into myself. My sob emerges as a desperate pant for air against his lips, and he raises his head, staring down at me as I hastily throw my hand over my eyes.

I can cover my tear-streaked face, but I cannot swallow the choking sounds from my throat. They are not the raw screams that tore their way into the open when I wept for my mother, for the first and only time before tonight, but I do not know why they are different. It still feels like I am crying because I have just been stabbed in the chest with the dagger left to fester in my heart. It will leave a scar that will never heal.

Maker guide me. Why did You throw him into my path? I could have survived on my own, living happily ignorant and blissful in the peace of my family's arms, and never know that there was anything missing in my life if I had never known him. He brings out the weakest in me, and now I need him there like a crutch to keep me standing. I will survive when he leaves, but when he does, it will be nothing more. Only surviving.

His hands stay on my shoulders, resting there as if measuring its span between them. They are unshakeable hands, as quick with a dagger as they are with nothing but skin. And I am crumbling to pieces between them.

I swallow a shuddering breath of air and force myself to calm down. "I'd better go," I finally manage to say. I refuse to look up at him. "I can't...I can't do this, Zev. Good night."

He does not stop me this time when I stumble down the stairs. I bump past someone else on the way down and keep my head averted so that I do not have to do more than mumble an apology. Soris follows at my heels, and my feet take me straight to my father's house where I fall into my narrow bed with my face to the wall and squeeze my eyes shut. Soris whines by my bedside. I ignore him.

It was a mistake to invite Zevran to the alienage. Here, I have always been strong. The closed gates especially have always been a haven of sorts. They kept me safe in the knowledge that at least while it was dark, I did not need to worry about glittering eyes following Shianni's swaying back or the smell of fish permeating my clothes straight through to my skin. When the gates closed, I recovered and prepared to face tomorrow.

But he strolled straight through those gates tonight and turned my strength on its head with a single drunken kiss. I hope he walks in the Black City for eternity.

Except I don't. How could I ever?

Maker guide me.

There is an enormous bruise on Zevran's chin the next morning that is so livid that even Oghren comments on it, asking if Zevran had gotten into a fight after he lost their drinking match. Zevran just grunts something incomprehensible in reply and flashes a brief and somewhat hungover grimace of a smile. Leliana has no sympathy for him, although Nigella suggests seeing one of Eamon's healers for an elfroot poultice before we leave Denerim.

I look down at Shianni's delicate knuckles on her left hand in the meantime and see that they are wrapped in old strips of cloth that smell faintly of moldy elfroot. I continue looking at her hand pointedly when I give her the entire contents of my purse as we say goodbye at the open gates leading into the marketplace. She ignores my gaze, and just gives me a wide-eyed look as she feels the heft of the bag in her palm. "Put it to good use," I say in response, and cannot resist a suggestion. "Maybe some fresh elfroot extract?"

She just wraps her arms around my neck and holds me tight against her. "Thank you, cousin," she says.

I duck my head and return her embrace. "I wish I could do more."

"Oh, right. Because saving the entire country isn't enough. This is plenty. Just come home safe, Daen." Shianni puts her lips by my ear and whispers into it. "He's a good guy, your Antivan, you know," she murmurs. "You shouldn't let go of him."

I tighten my arms around her. I know she is right. But right now, he isn't the one I don't want to let go of.

* * *

_Antivan:  
_Com un ciamba di amora = literally, "like a donut of love." Total drunken nonsense. _Ciambella di amore_ is Roman slang for "love handles," which I have always thought was super cute.

___Sorry again about the long chapter. I tried to cut it down, especially because there's so much talking in it, but this was as short as I could get it._

_I __am going to pre-emptively say that there might not be an update next Sunday, because work is seriously kicking my bottom and I can't think about anything else for now. There may be one for _Beak_ if I can make myself happy with the chapter by then. _Clouds_, definitely not._

_Thanks to the new followers. _Cielshadow17_, thank you so much for the review._

_Until next time._

_-K_


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

I should have just taken the damn earring. Then I would not be lying by myself beneath the open sky, awakening fresh from a dream that has left me covered in sweat and my throat raw.

I need a bath.

No one in their right mind would attempt to bathe outdoors in this weather, even if they happen to come across a pond that has yet to freeze over. But I am a Warden during a Blight, and I think that gives me some license to not be in my right mind, even if the only other Warden I travel with seems to have retained his.

We are still a few days away from Redcliffe. Riordan has gone ahead of us, leaving me to deal with my new recruit. I am not kind enough a person to forgive so quickly, and I think Loghain knows this. The look we leveled at one another when he joined us at the gates of Denerim had been wary and full of mutual distrust, and we have exchanged few words since.

Alistair was right. I do not know if I can trust Loghain with my back in battle. But the word that has reached us from Redcliffe so far has not been good, and that means that I will have to find out how well I can trust him soon. It is the mistrust that makes me so inadequate at explaining the dreams to Loghain on my own, I think. Still, I have jolted myself awake more than once on our journey back to Redcliffe, only to see Loghain lying on his back, simply staring up at the sky, barely a bead of sweat on him. I may be the senior Grey Warden, but he knows far more about fear than I do. I do not have to like him, but I can respect that much about him.

Fear clouds my mind. A good cold dunk will clear it up.

We have come to rely on Shale as our watch, exhausted as we all are as we hurry back to Redcliffe, and I check to make sure her back is turned before ducking into the forest. I hear a familiar pant of breath behind me and turn, stopping Soris from following with a single look. He stays by the fire, his head raised high and his eyes locked on me, his mouth gaping open and his tongue lolling between his fangs. Finally he settles himself on his stomach, and I turn and continue on into the woods.

I do not have to orient myself much to find my way, even in the dark. We are not far from a point we passed earlier this year on our journey away from the Dalish encampment. Then, it was still spring, and Wynne was the first to spot the pond surrounded by grass and shaded by the gentle arms of leaved trees. We smelled like werewolves—or so she claimed—and we needed baths, and she would not budge until we all had our turns scrubbing ourselves clean. Alistair and I went in together, and he had laughed until he cried when we stood together in the center and he saw how the water went up to my chin when it was only up to his chest on him, and I admitted that I was standing on my tiptoes. That was the first time since we met that I truly laughed with him.

Tonight I part skeletal branches alone and step silently upon ground cold and bare of green. I look for a rock shaped like a werewolf baying at the moon—its silhouette fooled me enough the first time I saw it to engrave it into my memory—and follow its sloping back towards a grove of bare-armed trees, the tallest only half as high as the _vhenedhal_. Leliana had explained to me that, many years ago, the ground had ruptured here, and left a face of pure granite jutting up towards the sky that tonight balances the crescent of the waning moon on the tip of its finger. I did not know the earth could do that. I thought its shifts were limited to the dirt on its surface! Hearing that made me wonder how firm the ground really was beneath my feet. Orzammar only renewed my worry.

Below the face of rock is the pond I search for, its dark mirrored face glittering beneath the moonlight like a hidden jewel as I weave through the trees towards it. It reminds me of Morrigan, strangely enough, although I doubt she would find the comparison flattering. I glance around quickly to ensure no other living thing is already there before stepping into the open at the pond's edge.

I shed my armor and my clothes and tuck them and Starfang among a pile of rocks. Fang I keep strapped over my bare back in its sheathe, and I step into the water and slide into its depths, one cautious step after another. I am sure the water is close to freezing, but it feels no cooler than it did when I had toddled through its depths just this past spring, fascinated with the feel of water supporting me up to my neck and uncomfortably aware that I did not know how to swim. I had to get out soon enough, uneasy with the possibility of drowning and Alistair's energetic splashing not making me feel any safer.

Tonight I only go up to my waist before stopping, then crouch down so that the water rises to my shoulders. I can stand up any time I need to, if the feel of water around me becomes too confining for me to bear. I sit there on the sloping bottom of the pond and raise my knees to my chest, clasping my hands around my crossed ankles.

But I might as well be entirely underwater. The night is silent, slumbering in darkness as my friends do and as I ought to be as well, and the quiet closes around me as though the forest holds its hands cupped over my ears. There is not even a breath of wind to stir the air.

It is too quiet, and too still. Maybe I should have brought Soris with me. It has only been a week since we left Denerim, and I miss my family, and dancing with them around the _vhenedhal_. And I miss Alistair and his strange ability to make everything seem like it is going to be fine.

And I miss, most of all, a set of hands that always know the exact wrong moment to touch me, and a smooth, sweet voice that feels like honey on my fingers, and can make me squirm with a single word.

Maker. Wrong thing to think about. If anything at all, I came out here to get away from thoughts like that.

When I look up at the moon, its thin crescent is a grimace of a smile, as though it is telling me that I cannot even hope that things will get better from here. I laugh. I cannot help it. Looking to the sky has always brought me solace in the past, but not tonight. Tonight, it only makes me realize how alone I am right now.

I never have been brave, or strong. But I have always been good at pretending to be when I had to, and at least I do not have to be right now. And I am too tired. I drop my forehead to my knees and gather my legs closer to my chest until I can feel my heart beating against them. My shadow below me trembles with the ripples my movement creates on the mirrored surface. I watch it shiver, surrounded by a halo of silver light, the dying moon's blessing caught and trapped within the water's dark depths. My nose nearly touches the water. I could kiss my featureless reflection if I wanted to.

I laugh again. Maker, how pathetic am I?

I do not know where the words come from; they seem to spill like drops of water from my lips. "'O Maker, hear my cry,'" I murmur. "'Guide me through the blackest nights. Take me from a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain...'"

There is a vague prickling at the nape of my neck. I fly to my feet and whip around, Fang drawn in my hand.

I suppose I should not have been surprised to see Zevran standing there, although it is the first time we have been alone together since the night in the alienage. He has skulked on the periphery of our group since we left Denerim, always just within sight and never closer to me than necessary. The others have noticed, of course; we may be traveling as quickly as we can, but even we have to stop to rest. And of course it was Leliana who asked, during one of our quiet moments gathered around the campfire, nodding off one after the other over a mug of Morrigan's tea. I told her what had happened before we left Denerim, or at least as much as I was comfortable revealing. She just looked at me, her blue eyes blinking like an owl's in the firelight. _"I do not understand why you two are so cruel to one another,"_ she said.

I flush suddenly, and somehow the water does not start boiling around me.

He looks at me, silent, and I am tempted to wade deeper into the pond to ensure he cannot reach me. I sheathe Fang and cross my arms over my chest instead and stare back at him, holding my ground. I should never have to be scared of him, not like I have been scared of others in the past. But he makes me feel exposed in a way as no one else has. I am far too aware of the water lapping around my bare waist as I shift my weight below the surface. I have to force myself to relax.

"Care to join me?" I ask at last, trying as best I can to keep my voice casual. "It's a little warm, but otherwise it feels fantastic."

"Hmm." He strips his glove from his hand and steps forward to dip a bare finger into the water. "Yes, very warm." He flicks the droplets from his finger and remains in a crouch, staring at me. More silence passes between us. I swear I can hear the forest breathe.

"I have not heard you pray before," he says finally. "And here I thought I had corrupted you so thoroughly."

"I don't really make a habit of it," I reply. "I don't think the Maker hears anything elves say. But my dad did try to teach me to read using the Chant. Bits of it come to me sometimes. And sometimes they fit the moment."

"Hmm. Like sex poetry, no?"

I chuckle uncertainly. It sounds more like a hiccup in my ears, and I cut it short with an awkward cough into my raised fist. "Maybe that's what I've been doing wrong all this time. How did it go again? 'The song I see in thee...'"

"'The symphony I see in thee, it whispers songs to me,'" he corrects me. "But perhaps it is not the best moment for such poetry."

We stand staring at each other in complete silence again until I look down, hoping the moonlight has hidden my flush. "Look, Zev, I...I understand if you want to go."

"Go?" he repeats, and I look up to catch the briefest flash of incredulity flicker across his face before it disappears behind his half smile. "Where would you suggest I go, in the middle of a Blight?"

"Back to Antiva?" I suggest half-heartedly.

"Returning without Taliesen now would be sure to bring half a House of Crows down upon my head," he says dryly.

"Then...I don't know. Explore Orlais. See if they need you in Starkhaven. Or maybe Alistair does. I don't...I don't know, Zev. I don't want to hold you back."

"You do not hold me back," he says, and I cannot read his face. The moonlight's silvered hand works well at obscuring more than just my own awkwardness. "I followed you tonight because I wish to speak to you about...my past."

"You've told me a lot of it already—"

"Not everything. You have been very forthright with yours, more honest with me than I deserve, while I have not been so with mine."

I shrug uncomfortably. "You don't have to explain yourself. If you're leaving, it'll be easier for both of us if you just...go."

"I am going nowhere." He sits cross-legged in the frozen grass by the pond and fixes me with a sharp look. "You have asked before about the last mission before I came to Ferelden. The truth of the matter is that it is the reason why I accepted the contract on you Wardens. I was looking for a suicide mission, some way for me to go out in a blaze of glory. And my last mission was the reason why."

"A suicide mission?" I repeat. "That's..."

"Unlike me, _si_." Zevran smiles briefly. "But what started it all was unlike me, as well. My last mission was...a team effort. With Taliesen."

"The charming one."

"Hmm. That you can laugh is a good sign, I suppose."

I cough into my fist. The ache in my lower back is long gone, but the stitches are still in my ear, and they are difficult to ignore. "It's how I get by."

He studies me with glittering amber eyes. Like marbles made of molten gold.

"I'm sorry. I'll stay quiet. Go on."

Now it is Zevran who laughs quietly. "I think we have had an exchange like this before, yes? But I shall go on. And do not feel the need to stay quiet, if you must speak." He rests his chin on his raised fist, his elbow propped on one knee. "Taliesen brought another Crow on to help us. She had a certain skill set that he said would be very valuable to us for this mission in particular. I still do not know what that skill set was. I saw her and could not see anything else afterwards. She was an elf and a very experienced Crow, with at least three years more experience than I. And tough, and dark—dark hair, dark skin, lips full and red like berries. And eyes that shone like justice. Rinna was her name, and I had never seen anyone like her before."

I swallow. "She sounds beautiful."

"That is an understatement. Rinna was exquisite. She was a painting without a frame. None could hold her. Of course, we were on a mission, and so we spoke to one another on a strictly professional basis. But sometimes when we were together I would see her looking at me, and she would smile. And I would find myself very much looking forward to when the mission was over."

"But that was your last mission?" I ask. "What happened? Did you..."

"Nothing happened. She died."

A part of me is selfishly relieved. I am glad it is not something he can see. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Taliesen and I killed her together."

I am used to how cavalierly he speaks of violence by now, and yet this still manages to surprise me. "Why?"

"Taliesen came to me one night, just before we were to finish off our mark. He told me that Rinna had betrayed us—that the next day, when we closed in for the kill, we would be certain to fail because she had already warned our mark of what would happen, and had been paid handsomely in thanks. So we decided together that she would have to die. Betraying the Crows, you see, seemed unforgiveable." Zevran does not move a muscle, except to give me one of his half smiles. "Taliesen, as you...well, he was not very kind. I simply watched. She swore up and down the entire time that she had not betrayed us, and begged us not to kill her. Even told me she loved me. I laughed and told Taliesen to slit her throat, and spat on her as she bled out at my feet. Taliesen left. I stayed and watched the life fade from her eyes. I thought it was what she deserved. But the next day, when we went to take our mark using a different strategy, we found out the truth. Rinna...had not betrayed us, after all. I do not know who it was. But it had never been Rinna."

I sink back into the water, sitting on the bottom of the pond again, my knees tucked beneath my chin. I cannot think of anything to say. It would all be utterly inadequate.

"When we returned to our masters, we said only that she had died during the mission. And...well, I was...not very much liked by one of the guildmasters. You must understand, I was very proud of myself then, very sure that I could do no wrong, that no one could resist me. I told this to anyone who would listen. This guildmaster in particular had grown tired of my boasting. He looked right at me and told me that he knew Taliesen and I were lying. He knew what we had done. And he said that he did not care. Nobody did. The mark was dead and the contract was fulfilled. If a Crow or two was lost along the way, well—it is inconvenient to lose a fine blade, but much less so when there are many others to take its place. One day, he said, the same would happen to me. And there would always be another Crow to take my place.

"Taliesen and I were punished for killing Rinna without a guildmaster's order, of course; they may have many replacements, but it is better to not have to replace a good weapon in the first place, yes?" He directs his laugh at the ground. "But it was a slap on the wrist, in truth. Afterwards, I could not focus on even the smallest task. When I healed enough to take contracts again, I waited until the most dangerous one I could find came up." He looks up at me. "And that was the one on you and Alistair."

I say nothing again, and he keeps talking. It is like he cannot stop now—and I could not have stopped him if I wanted to. "I wanted to die. But if a...tool, a weapon is all that I was to be in my life, then I was at least going to die in the most brilliant way I could imagine one such as I leaving this world. So I hired enough mercenaries to make sure they could finish the job after I got myself killed, or so I thought. And that is how we met, you and I. Although it was Alistair who knocked me unconscious, if I recall, yes?"

"I think so," I say.

"I did not expect to wake up from that. I thought as I fell, ah, Zevran, this is it. Now you can rest. Very relieving, you know. Instead I woke up with a headache and you and your friends staring me down. And you saved me, as I have told you before." He shrugs. "That is all."

Silence closes around us again. I sit wrapped in water and staring at my knees, doing everything that I can to keep our eyes from meeting again.

I have always thought him unshakeable. And now I know that he, in many ways, is not. No more than I am, at least. This is not what keeps me silent. But something does.

"Do you have nothing to say?" he asks quietly.

"I...no. Thank you for sharing that with me."

"Is that all?"

I cannot look up at him.

"You saved me in more ways than just that one time after I tried to kill you. It is luck that I chose the contract on you first." He is silent for a few breaths before speaking again. "And still you have nothing to say?"

"I have to...I have to think a little," I say. "Maybe you should go back to camp."

"_Brasca_," he growls.

My head bounces up as he stands and strides past the pond's edge and straight in, not even pausing to remove his boots or any of his clothes along the way. The water licks at my legs with his entrance and I stand. I do not know what to do. He should not be in the water; it is too cold for him. My mind races and flails like a moth caught indoors, and my feet in comparison are rooted to the ground, caught between going to him and running away. "Zev, stop!" I finally choke out. "You'll catch a cold!" Andraste's blood. That is all that I can say?

He keeps wading forward. I finally manage to take a single step back before he reaches out and catches my wrist, roughly circling my waist with his free arm and pressing me against him. I flinch away, turning my head and raising my free hand to shield my face instinctively. "No," I gasp, and the look in his eyes would have sent me running if he did not hold me so tightly. I do not understand what it is I see in there. His face seems so foreign. So confused. Then I realize that I have seen that look before, in my mother's face, as she rounded a corner and saw me pinned to a scaffold's frame, hands pressing mine to the bars while more dug into my throat. Heartbreak. Anger. Shame.

My arms begin to crawl with the pressure of nonexistent hands gripping them. Fingernails rake at my upper arm and I do not realize that they are mine until his hand leaves my back and grabs the wrist on my other hand and drags it away. His hand does not release mine, but takes it along the return journey to my back and holds it there, pinned against me. Trapped again. My heart begins to panic and I cannot breathe for a moment, until he leans closer and I catch leather and musk wafting around me. It does not stop my heart from fighting in my chest, but I can breathe as long as that is all that I can smell.

"Do not run from me, Daen," he says, and his voice is sharp, biting at my ears.

I shake my head. What I am denying to him, I do not know.

"Why?" he demands. "Tell me that much and I will release you. And you need never see me again, if that is your wish."

"That...it's not. It's not." I shake my head again.

"Then what is wrong? What is it about me that frightens you? Do I remind you—"

"You...no! It's me. I'm not..."

"Not what?"

"I'm not the person you thought I was," I blurt. It is all that is on my mind. "I'm...not brave. I can't be."

"That is all?" He lets out an exasperated breath of air. "_Ma feca_. I spent nights wondering what you were hiding from me when we reached Denerim. After Taliesen, you finally told me and I knew that you are exactly who I know you are. But still you ran from me." He grabs the back of my neck and presses his forehead against mine. It feels hot, almost feverish. "I do not understand."

"Because I'm a coward!" I spit. "I'm afraid of humans. I'm afraid of the Archdemon. I don't want to die." And I sob between a laugh that sounds like rock grating against rock. "Especially not for...damn _shemlen_." Tears. At last.

I jerk back as lips touch my cheeks at the points where hot water drips down my face. He holds my face even more firmly between his hands and eats my tears as I choke them back. I try to tell him to stop, but the words sputter away, diminishing with every touch of his lips. My sobs are extinguished by sheer surprise, and he draws back and looks me in the eye.

"You know why I took the contract on you, and why I went about it the way I did. I wanted to die. But in truth, I am terrified of death. Here, I will admit it: I am a coward, too."

"Hah," I croak. "So we're both cowards?"

"That is precisely what I am saying." He tilts his head. His voice is all confidence and soothing, but the childlike nod of his, the way he looks at me, full of hesitation and curiosity, says that he is not nearly as confident as his voice sounds. "We...fit each other, no?"

I kiss him, knee deep in freezing water that I cannot feel.

I know that there is more to his story than what he has said. Crows, after all, do not love—or so he has said. But with Andraste's blessing, maybe there will be more time soon for him to tell me everything. It does not have to be right after the Blight is over, or even within the year. It could even be only before I leave for my Calling. And I will be as grateful to hear it then as I would be if I had heard it any time before, so long as it meant that he had always been there with me until then.

When we break away, I stare up at him and can only hope the moon does not hide what I am trying to tell him with every fiber of my being. "I won't be scared anymore one day, Zev," I say. "I promise."

"Ah, _mi amora_, you are already brave enough for the both of us. Do not doubt it." He gives me that look—the half smile and lazy lids that I have yearned to see—and pushes my hair out of my eyes. "You must be, to go into battle with this broom brush on your head."

I bury my face in his chest in reply and hug him against me as tight as I can manage. My arms and legs shake and he all but hauls me out of the pond. I cannot even explain that it is not the cold that is responsible for my trembling but something else entirely. He sits abruptly and takes me with him, and I do not let him go. I barely feel it when my knees scrape the cold dirt of the ground. There is nothing more real than him here with me; his warmth and his smell have filled the vacuum of the forest's silence that I bathed in alone before he came.

His head drops to cover mine and I hear him mumble something into my hair that I do not know or understand. It could be Antivan. I only know that my ears have never heard those words before.

"I still have the earring," he finally murmurs into my ear. I understand that. I wonder why I could not make out what he said before? I will have to ask him later. "Will you take it now?"

I have to pull my head out of his chest to reply. "Andraste's arse. I'll wear it."

Zev raises a brow. "That does not seem very safe to me. We will need a fire and a needle..."

"I'm a Warden. I really don't think this is going to be what kills me," I say dryly.

He eyes my naked body. "Yes, I see your point."

The earring is pale beneath the moonlight, but it glows all the same, and I watch it from the corner of my eye until it has gone past my periphery. I do not even mind it when I feel the sting of the earring as it pierces my left earlobe. It throbs as he takes his hand away, but I reach up and touch the smooth bit of gold and finger the little amber jewel that hangs from it between my thumb and forefinger.

"I am yours," he says.

I chuckle. "Me, too."

Then he sneezes and shatters the silence of the forest, and I laugh and grab my clothes and force him to return to camp. He sounded worse than Soris with a wet nose and all I can guess is that it means he needs to get in front of the fire. We steal past Shale's turned back when we arrive. Luck is with us in more ways—Soris is nowhere in sight, and Loghain has not moved. I sit Zev on my blankets and sneak my way to his tent to grab his entire bedroll. When I return, he has my blanket tucked over his lap and his hands held towards the fire.

"I did not realize how well you Wardens tolerate the cold until now," he says as I return. I put his blankets over his shoulders and glance across the fire to check on Loghain. The man is still asleep, his head and hands twitching occasionally. The nightmares do not seem too bad tonight.

"It's a useful skill," I murmur, sitting beside him. "How are your legs?"

"Chilled," he says, and lifts a brow. "Perhaps they could use some company?"

I stifle a laugh and take my boots off. He lifts the blanket on his lap invitingly and I slide my legs beneath. It is my turn to raise a brow.

"You know, pants can do wonders for keeping the chill away."

"The pair I wore was wet, and my tent is so far away." He nods to where a dripping shadow is propped on sticks and angled towards the fire. "Besides, you are much warmer than the thickest of woolen trousers."

"Hah. Maybe you should go back to your tent."

"I am much warmer now, I assure you. Let us sit here for a while." He seems to be entranced by the fire, and I can feel his bare legs warming against mine.

"All right. But not too long," I say.

"Will you tell me how it is you became a Grey Warden now?"

"There isn't much to tell. I just killed the son of the Arl of Denerim—the one before Arl Howe. If I hadn't been conscripted, I'd probably be dead. I got lucky."

"And there isn't much to tell?" he echoes and laughs. "Such a talent for understatement."

I echo his laugh and tell him the entire story. He only knew bits and pieces before, and interrupts from time to time to ask some questions. He even wants to know why I do not like fish. I had no idea he had even noticed that. It is the first time I have had to tell it in its entirety all at once, and it feels more like a confession than anything else. I keep silent on the full extent of what happened to Shianni—I still am not ready to speak of that, and it should not be told until Shianni is ready to tell it herself. He does not ask, but I think he knows.

"All right, your turn," I finally say.

"You already know much of what I would have to tell," he protests.

"Hmm." I decide not to push that point. "Well, how about you tell me what all of those words you call me really mean?"

"Oh? Which ones?" he says innocently.

"Got-o?"

"_Gatto_. It means 'little cat.'"

"You've been calling me a cat all this time?"

"It is a...an idiom, is that what it is called? For the cunning ones."

"Hah. Well, it's better than 'wise one with the diamond eyes,' or whatever it was you told Soris." I think, trying to remember all of the foreign things I have heard from his mouth. "What about eye...ai..."

"_Ayana_?"

"That one."

Zev chuckles. "The _ayana_ are fairies from children's stories."

"A fairy! Even better."

"It is a very flattering term, I assure you. They are considered great luck in many parts of Antiva. And they are much like you, pale-haired and dark-eyed and delicate, and giving gifts of gold and silver to travelers in need."

"Delicate? Andraste's arse." It is my turn to laugh.

"The _ayana_ are not nearly as deadly as you, it is true. But they are also well known to be very beautiful and pure." He grins. The firelight deepens the shadows of his smile. "To see one is considered a great blessing. It is said they appear only before those who deserve their help. I like to imagine that I deserved yours."

"Well, of course you did."

I duck my head at his words in the meantime and fight the sudden blush. Beautiful. And pure? Hah! Maker's balls. But there is one more word I want to ask about. My mind rolls its three syllables over in my head, worrying at them like Soris would at a bone. I want to be able to say them right.

He leans forward suddenly and touches his lips to the earring at the point where it dangles from my earlobe. It still stings a little, and I flinch while still trying to hang on to how I will say that one word. My thoughts scatter in the next breath. The tip of his tongue slips around the upper rim of my ear, caressing its every fold and crevasse. I shiver just as he likely expected me to and bump him in the chest with my shoulder to save some of my own dignity. "Don't do that if you don't plan on doing it all night." I manage to keep my voice steady. Maker's little miracles.

Zev smiles. "Is that a challenge I hear?"

"Hah! Shale and Loghain are right there, you know."

"Ah, yes, so they are. But we have blankets to hide us from our golem. And as for Loghain, if there is one thing that I have learned from bedding a Grey Warden, it is that your dreams keep you very occupied. And very asleep." He leans towards me as he speaks until his lips are moving on my ear, and the last words are exhaled against it.

I shiver and still manage to keep my voice playfully calm, somehow. "You don't say? Grab some charcoal. Let's draw a mustache on him."

"Alistair has been a very bad influence on you, I am afraid." His hand covers mine.

"Are you serious?" I ask, and the sky disappears beneath his covers in response as he presses me to the ground with his entire body, his lips tracing down the lines of my neck and circling to a rest at its base. It is warmer than a dragon's den beneath the blankets—so warm that I barely feel the heat of his hands as they undo the laces on my pants and slip inside, his fingers tickling at my stomach until I squirm. When I return the favor, adding a gentle touch to the base of his spine along the intertwined path of the tattoos I know flow there, he arches his back and purrs in my ear. He seems so much like a giant cat that I almost laugh and have to bite my lip to stay quiet.

"Tonight you shall strive much more than usual to be quiet, I am afraid." He nuzzles my ear again. "_Amora_."

Maker's breath, that word. I feel like I have not heard it in years. I melt into him.

We lie on our sides chest to chest because it is all we have space for, and keep the blankets held down around us over each other's shoulders. Cold air still slips in even if I can barely feel the chill. It is more for modesty and Zev's benefit than it is for mine, but I find myself wondering if it is a losing battle to keep the blankets over us. It is at least a losing battle to remain utterly silent. I would bet Fang that he deliberately slips his shoulder away at one point to let a single sound through before I manage to stifle myself. He purports to have lost his balance and I give him my most sardonic look, even though I know he cannot see it. I can only hope that the layers of blanket around us muffled my unmistakable moan.

The dreams of the Archdemon are vague and touch me through a fog that night. I suppose my mind is too occupied by someone else to pay it much attention.

I wake wholly tangled in Zev's limbs. I could have stayed happily unconscious for much longer, and only rouse because he has decided to use his tongue to do something that feels uncomfortably arousing with the stitches in my ear. I cannot decide if I should elbow him or return the favor, but I can do neither in any case; he has my arms pinned down and his legs wound about mine, and the only thing I can move is my head.

He covers my mouth quickly with his as soon as my eyes open, forestalling my groggy complaint. "I do not mind, but you may wish to clothe yourself before the others wake," he murmurs.

I groan into his lips and let my eyes drift shut again. The covers are still over our heads, and I am loathe to leave his embrace. "Five more minutes."

"Hmm. I would oblige, except I heard Oghren walk past us on his way to relieve himself in the woods."

I wiggle free of Zev's arms and legs and sit up, glancing furtively around the campsite. Oghren is an early riser, but if he is awake then the others will soon follow. There is no one in sight, however, save for Loghain still asleep on his back on the opposite side of the fire. Even Shale and Soris are not standing at their customary posts—perhaps they have followed Oghren? Maker, that must be awkward. Then again, he is probably too groggy with sleep to care. That might mean that he did not notice the too-large lump Zev and I created beneath our blankets when he passed us by.

I spot my smallclothes and pants lying in a tangled mess within reach and snatch them up quickly, standing up to slip them on. When I glance back down after doing up my laces, Zev is smiling up at me with his head cushioned on his hand. I know he is practically bare under the blanket like I was, although I notice he has somehow managed to keep his socks on, of all things.

I raise my brow. "Enjoying the view?"

"_Si_." He grins and sits up, gathering the blankets around his hips. He pauses and paws through its folds before tossing a rumpled piece of cloth up to me. "Your shirt, my dear Warden."

I catch the bundle and tuck it under my arm. It is far too cold for him to be bare, even if he does not mind showing off. I toss his dry pants back to him, and root around a stump to find the discarded ball of one of the black sleeveless vests he prefers to wear beneath his armor. He rises as he catches it, confirming his nudity, and leisurely dons his clothing. I stand before him, my shirt gathered at my elbows before me, and watch him begin to button his vest.

He notices me watching him and seems to forget about doing up his vest, although I would bet my last sovereign that he did that on purpose. "_Si_, _amora_," he says, dropping his hands, and the corners of his lips tug upwards in a barely concealed smile as I shiver. I knew he said it to watch my reaction!

"Do you believe in the Maker?" I ask quickly.

"Andraste seems a most bewitching lady, but as to the Maker, no. Although I may have seen him last night," he replies, waggling his brows at me.

"Hah!" I scoff and shrug my shirt over my shoulders. Extra hands help me pull my shirt down my head, and I emerge to find him standing directly in front of me, a half smile on his lips and his fingers lingering at my hips. I return the favor by doing up the buttons he has left undone. This is probably what he was angling for to begin with, but I am not above feeding his ego from time to time. Although Maker knows I did enough of it last night.

I fight a blush as the ghostly memory of his lips on mine causes my back to tingle. My fingers stumble clumsily over their fellows, and I force them to relax. I am twelve years old again, my age chaotic once more in the wake of the shivering mess he leaves me in. I cannot wait for my birthday next year. Twenty-two is twenty-two no matter which way you put it.

"Why the sudden philosophy, _amora_? Has Leliana gotten to you?"

I chuckle. "I might never have been inside a Chantry until I left Denerim, but I've always been Andrastian."

"Never inside a Chantry? But there is one in Denerim, yes? It was not far from the alienage, as I recall."

"Well, theoretically elves could go inside. We just had to sit in a different area and we weren't allowed to speak to any of the Sisters or ask for their blessings. One of the Sisters came to us on rest days, so honestly most of us didn't see a point of going to the Chantry. I'd peek in from time to time, but it usually ended with me getting chased off."

"And you are still Andrastian?" The corner of his mouth quirks upward.

"Hmm...old habits die hard, I suppose. My dad is pretty devout. He used the Chant to teach us how to read. But what about you?"

Zev laughs dismissively. "Not I. I still am not even sure what to think of the Ashes. But why so curious?"

I watch my fingers climb the centerline of his torso, moving to the next buttonhole. "Sister Hildegard always told us that we all will pass through the Fade when we die. Those who believe in the Maker go to His side through the Fade. But the ones who don't stay in the Fade, without the Maker. In Oblivion, she said, for eternity."

He raises a languid eyebrow. "Is this an attempt at a conversion? Please, spare me. I have been a very bad boy."

"Hah! I'd have an easier time converting a nug. Even if Sister Zevran would be interesting to see..."

"If this is a fantasy of yours, we could indulge it a little..."

"...It'd be utterly terrifying."

"Ah, so cruel."

"Never said I wasn't interested. Maybe someday, when we have the time. And a private room." I fiddle with a button, noting that it needs mending, and taking the moment to let my reply sink in before continuing. I do not need to raise my eyes to know that he is smiling at me, but I do so anyway, simply to enjoy his expression. Even I cannot fight back my own smile. "It's just—I was wondering what it would be like, to be by the Maker's side without you. Forever. I'd rather have you than the Maker for eternity, is all."

"Ah, well. If it makes you feel any better, I would welcome you by my side in Oblivion with open arms." He grins. "I must say, the idea of lingering for an eternity in a place named 'oblivion' does not quite tempt me. I prefer to believe that what comes after death is only what we ourselves wish it to be. Our bodies hold us in this world, but without our bodies, what we may perceive—ah, it has no limits except what our own minds shall imagine, yes?"

I cock my head and consider his words. "That sounds kind of nice."

"Mm, I thought it did too! Well, but it did not occur to me how much the Fade is a twisted version of that whim of mine until I found myself trapped in the bloody thing. I think perhaps having a body that can feel gives the mind a very useful frame to work in, maybe makes it less susceptible to demons. In any case, I assure you, in my afterlife my mind shall be thinking of nothing but you."

"Hmm. Along with a few others, I bet." The top three buttons I leave undone, so that the bare skin of his chest creates a striking frame for his face. He prefers them that way. So vain, my Antivan. I should ask Wynne to knit him a scarf. I smooth the line of the rest of the buttons down along his abdomen to straighten my handiwork.

Zev, meanwhile, gives me a mock look of dismay. "Never! And if they are there, it is only because I wish to share their charms with you!"

"Hah!" I promptly fasten the topmost button on his vest. He gags and pretends to choke until I undo it, and catches my elbows with his hands before they can drop away, drawing me towards him. I let him. It is what I was angling for, after all.

"Just so you know," I say, lacing my fingers at the small of his back, "I'd stay in Oblivion for you."

Oh, Maker. That sounds like something straight out of one of Soris's love poems. I start to duck my face into his chest to cover my embarrassment, but he slips a hand beneath my chin and does not let me hide. His thumbnail playfully taps the bit of gold dangling from my earlobe before it continues its descent along the side of my jaw, and I hear the soft ring of the contact in my ear. "I appreciate the thought, _amora_. But all of this talk of the afterlife is so depressing! Let us turn our attention to the things before us in the now-life, hmm? You are always in too much a hurry to get to the end." His face dips towards mine. "And you should not say such things simply for my benefit. It is a little difficult to un-believe the things you have always believed in, yes?"

"Not when there's a reason to," I reply, and let him lift my chin.

I do not know who does the kissing this time, but I do not need to know. Nor do I want to.

Maker's breath, I love him. I glimpsed more of him last night than I have in the past year we have been together, and that taste only makes me want to see more. My chest aches. I love him.

When will I be brave enough to say it to his face?

A tent flap rustles open and I break away from him quickly. Wynne simply raises a slender brow. "Well, it's nice to know that you two have finally made up," she says dryly. I cough and busy myself with reviving the fire for breakfast. The camp comes to life soon afterwards, and Zev hovers so close to me that I am sure everyone else knows, too, if the earring has not already given it away. My hair has grown out, but it is still not long enough to cover my earlobes.

When Oghren and Soris return, he has a wild goose under his arm, already plucked bare and its head dragging limply on the ground behind him. I set a pot of water to boil for him and eye the bird appreciatively. It is a little thin, but it still has enough meat on it to make a decent breakfast.

"Goose in the winter, dwarf?" Loghain asks, a hint of grudging respect in his voice.

"Don' mention it. Some hunter forgot about 'is snare," Oghren grunts. "The mutt put it out o' its misery. All I had ter do was pluck it."

He sits and slides a sizeable blade through the goose's neck, neatly decapitating it in one stroke. Soris snatches the neck out of his hand before he can toss it to the side, and he sits back flapping his hand in the air and glaring after my mabari's retreating back. Soris is back again for the innards after the bird has been scalded and Oghren has split it through its stomach. This time he waits for Oghren to toss him his prizes one by one, and catches them out of the air, his giant jaws snapping shut with a noisy _crack_ and slobber occasionally flying to spatter his surroundings. Leliana sighs at that and moves back, rubbing at her cheek with the back of her hand. I stay where I am—I am used to mabari drool—and watch Oghren split the goose's carcass open through the back, widening the gap with both hands through the cut and pulling the exposed bones out with a few firm tugs. He then proceeds to shred the goose meat into smaller pieces while he waits for a frying pan to heat. Thank the Maker he is not using his battleaxe to do it—he takes good care of his weapons, but there are a few dark stains along the edges that were probably left by a genlock's neck.

It is a remarkably leisurely breakfast for us, considering that we still do not know what to expect when we finally reach Redcliffe in a few days' time. But I think it is something we all need, and do not push for us to move faster, although Loghain sends me a few impatient glances.

When the shredded bird has finished cooking, we gather with plates in hand about the fire. Zevran sits beside me and slides a helping of goose onto his, humming a lilting tune under his breath. Leliana's ears prick up and she glances at him, her face beaming.

"Is that an Antivan song?" she asks. "It sounds lovely! What is it about?"

"Ah, it is a very tragic love ballad, about two young Crows in different Houses who fall in love. Er...star-crossed, as it were. Not so lovely as you may believe, as it involves the total destruction of both of their Houses. Speaking as a former Crow, I must say Antivan minstrels have quite the imagination! But the love scenes, they are magnificent and an inspiration to us all! Shall I translate a few verses for you?"

"Oh...no, that is quite all right," Leliana demurs.

"Is the painted elf making an allusion to itself and the Warden with its choice of tune?" Shale asks. The golem stands closer to us than usual, watching us as we eat. Shale is a hard one to get to know, and all I have really learned about it is that it hates birds. I suppose the golem must derive some pleasure from watching us destroy anything bird-like, although it has been averse to the idea of eating birds in the past.

"Why do you say that, my stony friend?" Zevran inquires curiously.

"The painted elf and the Warden would do well to remember that I do not need to sleep," Shale says dryly, and I gag on my stringy mouthful of goose while a slow smile spreads across Zevran's face. "Blankets alone do not hide everything. It was a nice try, though."

Leliana laughs. "I heard it, too. Very steamy." I cough and pound my chest and she laughs again. "We have all heard things here and there before, Daen. I know you try to be quiet, but sometimes things slip through."

"Right," I say, shooting a dirty look at Zev. He resumes humming, but casts a sly glance back at me.

"Maker's balls, what is wrong with you, Antivan?" Loghain demands. "The _both _of you. I was practically right next to you. _Right next to you_, Maker preserve us. You don't have even a shred of decency, do you?"

"And hide a mere fraction of my gloriousness from the world? I would sooner fall upon my sword," Zevran intones with mocking indignation.

"Oh. I thought that was what Daen was doing last night," Leliana says innocently. And now I am sure that I am as pink as her old Chantry robes, and I wish desperately that I had a set to hide under right now.

"Suddenly I am grateful my old bones allow me to sleep like a log," Wynne sighs. "Thank the Maker I heard nothing."

"And this is why I make my camp so far away," Morrigan mutters. "'Tis helpful...usually."

Leliana looks at me and laughs, her mirth spilling from her mouth with a silvered ease, and soon we are all laughing with her, although Loghain looks like he has swallowed a bone, and all Sten does is smile with his eyes while Morrigan uses hers to stare expressively at the sky. Leliana's voice is infectious and magical, and her laugh is the absolute only one I can think of that can immediately set my mind at ease and want to laugh along with her, too.

When I face my Calling, this will be one of the memories that will keep me alive on the Deep Roads. I will fight for them. And for my family. And, most of all, for the man who sits next to me and looks at me with eyes that promise me that he will never stop looking at the world through a face full of quiet amusement, because that is who he is, even behind the masks he wears for everyone else.

The darkspawn will never know what hit them.

* * *

_Note__: Aaaand an even longer chapter. Oops. _

_Daen cites from _Transfigurations 12_ in the Chant, with some skips._

_Let's just say I'll try my best to update either _Beak_ or _Clouds_ on Sundays from now on, but if it doesn't happen, it's because I'm too busy._

_Until next time._

_-K_


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

"Maker's breath," Loghain mutters, and it is only then that I realize that I am holding mine and quietly exhale. Soris nudges his head beneath my hand, and I scratch his massive skull, because it gives me something to do other than stare down at the scene we stand above, on the bridge overlooking Redcliffe Village. He wags his tail and _whuffs_ once, deep in his chest, and peers up at me with his black eyes. He probably _is_ trying to distract me. Blessed Andraste, I think I will be underestimating him until the day we die.

A Grey Warden always knows when darkspawn are near. I do not know how to describe the feeling, except that I have come to recognize the warning signs by the way my senses seem to widen. It is like I suddenly have Soris's nose and ears, and can see for miles around me, even through buildings and trees and solid rock in the Deep Roads. But I do not need my Warden senses to know that Redcliffe is overrun.

I do not know where the villagers are, but if any remain, I am sure it is because they are dead. The village was not this broken even when we helped protect it against the corpses Eamon's mage son had raised. Roofs lie in collapsed tangles of burning thatching and wood, and even from this distance I can see small clumps of fire shaped like human bodies lying prone on the ground. And the Chantry's steeple is all but gone, replaced by a charred skeleton that reaches weakly towards the sun. The only solace I see are sails near the horizon on Lake Calenhad. I can only hope they mean that some of the villagers have escaped to the safety of its clear waters.

"And we're to fight that?" Loghain asks, his voice tight with incredulity.

"We're Wardens," I remind him.

"There are only two of us," he points out, as if I needed to hear it. "I hardly think these are the best odds, particularly when there isn't an Archdemon in sight. We should cut our losses and give this village up. Its people are already dead."

I shake my head and tighten my grip on Fang's hilt at my side. "That isn't how it works, Loghain. Not for us. If there's darkspawn, we're fighting, Archdemon or no."

"Maker's breath," he mutters again. I have no reply to that. The odds are bad. And I cannot ignore how much better I would feel if it had been Alistair here with me instead.

Someone touches my shoulder, and I glance up and meet Zev's gaze. He stands on the opposite side of Soris, his hand resting on me. I cannot even muster a smile, but I release Fang to squeeze his hand.

"Wardens!"

I drop my hand from Zev's and turn towards the voice. Riordan runs towards us, his sword in hand, dark smears of darkspawn blood clinging thick to its entire length. He looks like a scarecrow in armor slumping on its post, barely able to stand on his own. I grab his arm when he reaches us and force him to look at me. His grey eyes can barely focus on me, and I cannot help but wonder how much longer he could have continued like this. He had insisted on traveling alone, saying he needed to cover as much ground as possible to reach Redcliffe. I let him go. It was a poor decision. Someone should have gone with him. I thought he was only a day ahead of us, but even a day fighting darkspawn alone will exhaust the strongest Warden.

"How bad is it, Riordan?" I ask quickly.

"It is bad. The entire village is a lost cause. Some of the villagers fled to their boats, others made it to the castle—the rest who remain are corpses." He pauses to catch his breath before continuing. "They have the castle surrounded. I believe the darkspawn are waiting for something; I do not know why they have yet to breach the castle walls otherwise."

"How well is the castle defended?"

"Not as well as it should be. They have been holding much of the darkspawn back with archers and the like, but those that get through have been slowly whittling away at the remaining guardsmen. And there are many wounded in the castle." Riordan shakes his head. "I tried to draw the spawn away from the castle, but it was not completely successful."

"Did you say there are wounded inside the castle?" Wynne says, stepping forward. "Are there healers?"

"There was only one in the castle that I know of. But there are far too many wounded for him to take care of on his own."

Wynne turns to look at me, but I know what she is about to ask. "We need to get you into the castle, Wynne," I say, and she nods.

"And the darkspawn?" Loghain growls.

I scratch my chin. "Well, they're going to be a problem."

"Brilliant. Maker's breath."

I ignore him. "Riordan, is there a good way in or out of the castle?"

He shakes his head again.

Leliana glances at me. "Wait. The windmill—through the prison. Remember?" I nod slowly.

"Did the bearded old human not say he was going to seal the entrance?" Sten asks.

"Nothing Shale can't handle." I glance at the stone golem.

"Shale cannot fit into the cellar," Zevran points out. He looks around the group. "As I recall, anyway, not all of us could. Sten, for one, and if he could not fit inside, then it will be worse for Shale, yes?"

"I know ye surface dwellers. A dwarf babe ken sneeze and collapse one o' yer walls." Oghren swings his axe over his shoulder. "I'll take care o' whatever yer Arl's put up over the cellar, trust me."

"All right, then. Wynne, I guess you're stuck with Oghren."

Wynne just sighs. "Well, it could be worse."

"Morrigan, you go with them, too."

"As I said..."

Morrigan interrupts before Wynne can finish, her yellow eyes flashing like lightning. "What? You're saddling me with the drunk and the old fool? You can't be serious."

"You can heal, too, and you know even more about potions than Wynne does," I point out. "They'll need you in the castle. And they'll need you to help with the defense once you're inside, too. Don't fight me on this, Morrigan."

She subsides, arms crossed over her chest. "Fine. 'Tis well. I have no desire to watch you expire on a genlock's blade. Which is where I assume you plan to be?"

"Can't resist a good fight." I turn back to Riordan. "You said you think they're waiting for something?" He nods. "Let's hope it isn't an emissary. Riordan, you go with the castle group; you're going to get killed if you stay out here. The rest of you, stay with me for now. Let's get Wynne and the others to the windmill first and see how far out the spawn are spread."

We encounter no darkspawn as we work our way downhill to the windmill, and there are only two genlocks lurking outside of the mill when we reach it. Leliana and Loghain easily dispatch them with one arrow and bolt each. I signal for the group to hang back and scout ahead, sticking low to the ground as I check the downhill path. It is oddly empty, but I sense nothing strange, and I turn and gesture for the others to follow. Wynne, Morrigan, Oghren, and Riordan break away and disappear into the windmill; the rest gather near me, using the windmill to hide themselves from view. I creep to the edge of the cliff, low to the ground again.

It is impossible to miss the darkspawn from here. They roam freely between Redcliffe's remains, like maggots burrowing through a rotting corpse. Redcliffe Castle stands tall in the distance, and I stare at the pinpoint shadows of spawn crawling towards its gated walls. Common genlocks and hurlocks—no shrieks, no emissaries. The usual ground force.

But my breath catches in my throat as I spy a hulking horned figure start to make its way towards Redcliffe's gates.

The ogre is far bigger than any I have ever seen. The hair at the nape of my neck prickles the way it always did in the Deep Roads, right before we turned a corner and ran into the older and more powerful forms of darkspawn—the ones that had survived long enough to gain powers of their own, and seemed to control forces of lesser spawn like generals of a shrieking horde. I sometimes swore they were speaking to me in the same way I heard the Archdemon in my dreams, in the breath before I cut them down. None of the others heard, of course, and Alistair had thought the Deep Roads were driving me insane until he heard them, too. But we had never been able to figure out why. Even the gelatinous broodmother did not seem capable of speech. Not that I would have wanted to hear what she might say. I could not understand any of the darkspawn who seemed to be speaking to me, but I had no desire to, and even less desire to do anything other than put the broodmother out of her misery as soon as I understood what—who—she had once been.

And Alistair wondered why there were not more female Wardens.

I shake my head and creep back towards my companions to deliver my news.

In the end, we agree to split up. Loghain and I need to get to the castle before the ogre does; we will go through the windmill passage. Soris will come with me. I leave the rest to Sten, with Shale a force of her own. Shale can do plenty of damage by herself, while Sten and the rest will be able to clean up the stragglers.

Zev balks. I should have expected this. He says nothing, but does not leave until I physically turn him towards Sten and Leliana. Sten gives Zev a look laced with impatience and disgust, but Zev does not notice—or if he does, he does not care. He throws me one last look over his shoulder before following the others down the hill. I sigh and scrub my forehead, noting absently how long my bangs have gotten, and spin on my heel to face what I have been left with.

Loghain glowers. He has given me no other kind of look since the Landsmeet. I stare at his sour face and wonder how a woman as beautiful as his daughter managed to come from him. Queen Anora's mother must have been the most beautiful woman in the world to make up for Loghain's deficiencies so well. I walk past him and head for the windmill, and do not care if he follows. He does, but I am sure that is because he has nowhere else to go.

We emerge to chaos. Redcliffe Castle is packed from wall to wall with huddled clusters of its people. I spot a few elves here and there and wonder if any are related to Nigella. I have no time to ask, however, and hurry down the hallways stepping over bodies and outstretched legs alike. Soris trots easily ahead, his tail wagging energetically, and lets out a happy bark when he spots a familiar figure.

Morrigan turns—she looks exhausted already—and arches a narrow black brow when she sees me. "Surrendered already?" she asks. "The drunkard has disappeared—I neither know nor care where he has gone." She fixes Soris with a look as sharp as needles before he can jump on her, and he stops a few paces away from her, his tongue dangling from his jaws. "Sit," she says firmly, and Soris drops to his haunches immediately.

I take Morrigan's elbow and draw her closer to me. She leans forward automatically, angling her ear towards me. "There's an ogre heading here. The gate won't stand a chance. Loghain and I are going to try to take it out before it gets through."

She stares at me with her yellow eyes, silently absorbing what I have said. "And if it gets past the gates?"

"Then we'll stop it in the courtyard."

"Fine words. And what are your odds?"

I chuckle with a lightness I do not really feel. "Well, it's kind of big, and I don't think it's going to be an easy fight. So I need you to keep the villagers in here calm, and start evacuating the ones who can move through the windmill route. Sten and the others are taking care of the darkspawn in the village, and they're all following the ogre towards the castle. There shouldn't be any near the windmill now."

She draws her head back and gives me a look that has set my heart pounding in the past. "You wish _me_ to keep these sheep calm? You do know who you are speaking with, yes? You didn't hit your head on the way here?"

Now my answering laugh is real. "I'm counting on you, Morrigan. Pass it on to Wynne. She'll know what to do."

Morrigan huffs through her nose. "Very well." She pauses and gives my silent Warden companion a steady look before turning back to me. "Mind your back out there and do not get yourself killed. 'Twill be a fine time indeed trying to lead an army with a dead elf at our head."

"An ogre isn't going to sneak behind me any time soon. Have you seen how big they are?"

"The ogre is not who I speak of." She grasps my wrist and squeezes it briefly. "Fight well, my friend."

I nod and we part ways. I will never comprehend Morrigan's beauty, much like I will never know how much Soris understands. I only know that she is one of my friends, and someone I know I can count on, even when I ask her to do something that is completely against her nature.

There is a small squadron of Redcliffe guards gathered at the castle entrance, their fists nervous on their swords and spears and their eyes locked on the doors before them. There are one or two grizzled veterans among their ranks, but far too many line-free faces for my liking. They turn towards me like flowers tracking the sun, and I find myself the uncomfortable center of attention for a dozen armed humans. Never a position I have wanted to find myself in. I swallow as my hands begin to sweat.

"Who's in charge?" I ask, striding forward despite my discomfort.

One of the older ones steps out of the group and inclines her head. "Warden," she says. I recognize her—she was one of the knights who helped defend the village against an undead attack. Her leg is bound with bloody rags of cloth, and is probably why she is inside. I nod in acknowledgment. I catch a few of the younger soldiers in the back exchange incredulous looks out of the corner of my eye, and the edges of my mouth twitch a little. They were probably expecting someone more like Loghain, not an elf half their weight and barely taller than his own dog. But they are very young. I wonder if they even recognize who the other Warden is.

"Ser Emaline," I say. "Good. There's an ogre heading to the castle gates."

She blanches. "An ogre?"

"You've seen them before?"

"Once. I'd hoped never to see another." She frowns. "It'll go through the gates like a hot knife through butter."

"Yes," I agree. "And the darkspawn ground forces will follow."

"What would you have us do, Warden?"

I glance around the small group. "Do you have men outside already?"

"A half dozen warriors and perhaps a dozen archers posted on the parapets." Ser Emaline shakes her head. "The initial attack overwhelmed most of our troops. Most of the ones here are here because they're injured; we're the last line of defense for the villagers if the ones outside can't stop the spawn." She stops and coughs into her raised fist. She has caught a winter cold; I can hear it in her voice. She is probably burning with fever and should not be fighting right now. But she has no choice, and neither do I.

"All right. Do you all have crossbows?" Ser Emaline nods shortly. "I'm going to need all of you posted around the courtyard walls. We're going to raise the portcullis—"

"Are you mad?" Ser Emaline sputters before she can stop herself.

"No, just a Grey Warden." I smile, hoping that it will calm her. She subsides, biting her lip nervously. "Raise the portcullis and let the ogre in, and close it right afterwards. Leave the ogre to us Wardens. This one is different from other ogres I've seen. It's leading the other darkspawn somehow. But that means that if we get rid of it, the rest should scatter. You and your men should use your ammunition to pick off the ground forces outside the gates, but if you can spare a bolt or two for the ogre when you see an opening, I'd appreciate that."

Ser Emaline nods and turns to issue orders. I turn my attention to Loghain and Soris. I give my mabari a good scratch behind his crooked ears and pat his flank. "Stick close, boy, and don't let the ogre kick you."

"And what would you have me do?" Loghain asks.

I pause. "Just follow my lead," I say after a few moments. Alistair would have known what to do; we had worked out a strategy between the two of us after our first ogre in the Deep Roads. But I do not know what to expect from Loghain. "Let's get that ogre."

The doors open. Two of the younger guards dash past me, running for the portcullis. Their faces are pale and grim as they go by, and I follow their backs and feel the hair prickle on the back of my neck again.

A shadow stands on the other side of the outer portcullis. I watch it raise its fist and drive it straight through the metal bars. They give with a sound like swords scraping on stone, and the ogre grabs hold of the edges of the hole it has created and pulls. The gate crumples in its hands like it is made only of paper instead of metal half a foot thick. The ogre steps through and heads for the second gate.

"Raise it!" I yell. The two guards have their hands busy turning the lever that opens the inner portcullis. It rises, but not fast enough; the ogre barges onwards, its head clipping the bottom foot of the gate and tearing a hole in the lattice large enough for a human or a genlock to slip through. I motion for the guards to drop the gate as the ogre draws to a halt in the middle of the courtyard and stares around it with an almost confused expression. When the gate slams shut behind it, it turns and screams. I draw Fang and Starfang and move.

The ogre is the largest and ugliest I have ever seen. It has a squashed face and its craggy jaws seem to take up half of the broad expanse, and its horns are rough and jagged and seem even taller than me. It is wearing some rudimentary armor—pauldrons that look like they used to be a knight's shield, punched through with spikes, and sheets of rusty metal molded over its knuckles and feet. It turns to face me as I run down the stairs and digs its hands into the courtyard, lifts a chunk of stone over its head, and hurls it at me. I throw myself down the last few steps and tuck into a roll while rock explodes behind me, reclaiming my feet safely at the base of the stairs. A chunk hits my shoulder and I stagger forward with a curse, but I grit my teeth and keep my grasp on Fang.

Soris rushes past me, his fur stiff and his muzzle twisted into a snarl. I glance back to check on Loghain. I need not have worried; he wisely hung back a few paces and moves now to join me in the courtyard, his sword drawn and his shield at the ready.

"Try to take out its ankles," I shout, waving Loghain by. He nods curtly and circles to the ogre's side, avoiding a kick and a few sweeps of the ogre's fists. He gets one lucky blow in before having to dodge a kick again, and he backs away, his brow pinched and a grimace on his mouth. The ogre turns to track him, and he barely dodges a swing from the ogre's arm.

"Its skin is like rock," he calls. I grin briefly. That was what I expected. If Alistair was here, he would know that I was using him to tire the ogre out, but I doubt Loghain would appreciate that. Ogres have few weak spots except around their head, and perhaps their neck if you can get lucky and leverage a sword beneath its chin. In their head, the only openings are the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, but it is not wise to try for any of those until the ogre is too tired to sense you coming and bite back.

"Keep at it," I yell. "I'm going to see if there's some way to get higher up."

He grunts and throws himself back at the ogre, although I catch a flash of annoyance in his eyes as he does so. Loghain has probably realized that I have no plan to join the fight until later, but to his credit he does not question my intent.

There is a commotion outside the gate. I look up briefly to see the entire area packed with hurlocks trying to squeeze through the hole the ogre's skull made. None are small enough to get through easily, and Ser Emaline and her men stand on the ramparts firing arrows and bolts into the writhing mass. They strain forward mindlessly, determined to join the ogre inside the courtyard even though it is impossible for them to do so. The gate seems to bulge toward me, filled to the brim with shrieking darkspawn. I can hear the gate's complaint as it begins to give, and my heart nearly stops.

And then there is a crash. A hurlock goes flying, landing flat against the gate and peeling off to fall bonelessly on the heads of its brethren straining below. A row of hurlocks in the back crumple as if their knees were cut from beneath them, but I see nothing. The hurlocks closest to the gate turn to face their new attackers.

A voice filled with rage and bloodlust cuts loose, growling and roaring as loud as the ogre. "Come an' get it, ye yellow-livered stinkin' nug slime! Is that yer face or did yer mother sit on ye when ye were a babe?"

I grin and laugh. I do not know how Oghren found the others after leaving Wynne and Morrigan, but his voice can only mean one thing: They made it.

Shale barges through the hurlocks packed by the gate, throwing them over her shoulder like they are children's toys and casually stomping on any that remain underfoot. The others follow in her path with Sten bringing up the rear. They clear the inner gate in a matter of moments. I catch a flash of wheat-gold hair and bronze skin weaving between flailing darkspawn limbs as easily as a fish navigating a river current and let out a quiet sigh of relief. The only one I cannot account for is Leliana. But I soon relax again as a slender figure with apple red hair poking out of her helmet appears on the ramparts, although I do not know how she got up there, and aims an arrow in to the fray below.

I return my concentration to the ogre with renewed vigor. Now I do not have to worry about the hurlocks breaking through.

Soris has managed to get himself up onto the ogre's shoulders, although like Leliana I do not know how he managed it. He worries at the ogre's ear with firm shakes of his head. The ogre starts to buck its head, swinging it back and forth. My heart rises to my mouth as I watch Soris get flung along. He will not release the ogre's ear unless he has to, but I do not want to see him go flying when there is nothing but unforgiving cobblestone and rock walls all around us. It is time for me to enter the fray.

I slide between the ogre's ankles and aim Starfang at its hamstring. The first slice I make barely draws more than a bead or two of blood from the ogre's thick skin, but I hack at the same area again and am rewarded on my third try with a gout of blood. The ogre falls to one knee. "Soris, release!" I cry, and hear him bound off of the ogre and land safely somewhere on the opposite side of its body.

The ogre stands and whirls on me. I dodge and weave around its feet. The ogre drags the leg that I cut, but it can still move, and it still has its arms besides. I roll as it takes a swipe at me and come to my feet near Loghain, who has been biding his time waiting for an opening.

"We might have a better chance if we take out its second hamstring," I say to him.

He snorts. "We might have a better chance if Andraste Herself descends." Loghain pauses. "What is it doing now?"

I follow his gaze to the ogre and nearly choke when I see it lower its head like a bronto and point the twisted horns covering the top of its head straight towards us. I react without thinking, shouldering Loghain to the side, and hitting him with enough force to jar my teeth. It is luckily enough. We fall and barely escape the ogre's charge. It slams into the castle ramparts with a force that shakes the wall down to its foundation, but does not break it. Loghain glares at me and I shrug and scramble upright. I scrub my bangs out of my eyes with my forearm and lift Starfang.

I glance behind me just in time to catch a genlock appear from seemingly nowhere and drive a concealed scrap of metal into Zev's leg. He stumbles and collapses to one knee, raising his daggers to block the following strike to his head.

My arm moves on its own. Fang tears through the air and between metal lattices and sinks straight through the genlock's unarmored cheek. The spawn falls with the force of the blow and Zev finishes it off with a strike to its throat.

I turn my attention back to the ogre—just in time to feel its fist close around my body. Loghain seems to shrink, his shocked face falling away beneath my feet along with the ground and my purchase on it. I am abruptly only a few feet from the ogre's craggy visage. Its jaws open and it roars in my face, dousing me with spit and thick strings of blackened slime. Its scream smells like the Deep Roads.

Sweet Maker, I think, if I wasn't a Warden already, I'd be one by the end of this—and then I cannot think of anything anymore, because the ogre's fist is slowly tightening around me. I hear something crack deep within me and pain shocks me straight from my brain to my toes. I do not know if it is my ribs or my arms or everything breaking all at once. I cannot even scream, although my body arches and strains with the attempt; the breath is being wrung from my body. A high-pitched note rings out inside of my head, and beneath that sound I hear something's deep, raspy laughter, like a sword scraping on granite and as dark as a demon's heart.

They say this is how King Cailan died. Leave it to me to go out the same way the useless king did. At least my ogre is bigger.

Twin streaks of silver cut through my fading vision. It is an impossible strike. One stiletto falls away, bouncing off of the hard boney ridge above the ogre's eyes; the other lodges itself to the hilt directly in the ogre's eye. The ogre flinches and roars and the pressure loosens around my torso. I gasp for air.

Dragonbone bites deep into the ogre's wrist in front of my face, and the fist loosens even more. I wiggle one arm free and grab Fang's hilt. I do not have the time to admire Zev's unerring aim. I drag Fang through the ogre's flesh with all of the strength I can muster until its blade slips free. Blood spurts with the rapid pulsing of the ogre's heart, and my own heart lurches in my chest as I begin to slip and finally fall free to the courtyard's cobblestones below.

The breath is knocked out of me as I land on something hard and sharp, but it is not the ground I expected. Loghain coughs into my ear as he staggers beneath my weight, but he keeps moving, circling behind the ogre's muscled legs and backing out of its reach while it screams and flails its arms in the air. Silver catches the sun's rays in its eye. I strain over Loghain's shoulder to look for Zev, but he has turned his attention back to the hurlock swarm. In all honesty, I do not even know how he managed to spare the attention for me. But he always watches for me in battle.

"Do you have a death wish, elf?" Loghain growls. He tosses me to the ground, in the shadow of the staircase leading up towards Redcliffe Castle's front door. I manage to land on my feet, but fall forward to my hands and knees, coughing and feeling like I am about to retch. I finally do, although there is not much in my stomach to bring up, and I try not to move too much because the pain in my sides is so bad that every cough makes the world fade into black and back again. My left arm feels like it spasms on its own, but when I look down it simply hangs limp at my side. It takes a moment for me to realize that it is probably broken, but I do not know how badly.

I look back up, peering around the stairs and wondering hazily why the ogre has not come after us. Soris is harrying its ankles, dodging each kick the ogre aims at him with nimble twists of his body, and the ogre's body is peppered with arrows. Many of them bear Leliana's own fletching and I wonder how many she has left in her quiver. The courtyard has been cleared and Soris fights alone, while beyond the ogre's giant mass I see my friends' turned backs as they keep the hurlocks at bay. Shale is in the thick of it all, the hurlocks' blades bouncing uselessly off of her stone body. Somewhere in the swarm, I can hear Oghren laughing, his voice thick with bloodlust and some of the buried pain I see in his eyes sometimes. Sten clears a swathe of hurlocks with a single sweep from Asala, his giant two-handed sword that is even taller than Leliana.

She herself reappears on the wall around the courtyard as if drawn there by my thoughts, her apple red hair clinging to the sides of her face beneath her helmet. I watch her aim another arrow at the ogre's face. The ogre screams and heaves a chunk of the courtyard at her; she disappears in a cloud of shattered rock and dust, and my breath catches in my throat until I see her cautiously lift her head over the broken lip of the wall.

This fight would be much easier if we had Wynne and Morrigan, but we do not. And I need to end it quickly before the hurlocks make it through and overwhelm us all.

Fang lies lost in the dirt where I dropped it after the ogre released me, but Starfang still rests in my right hand. Loghain looks as though he wants to return to the fight, his fingers drumming impatiently on the hilt of his sword, but he glares down at me and does not move. What does he want? I glare back up at him.

"And you are supposed to be the one leading us against the Blight," he growls. "I am not impressed."

"And like I've told you before, I'm not here to impress you," I retort between clenched teeth. "You get back out there and help Soris keep the ogre distracted."

"Yes, take a breather and leave the real fighting to the men, little elf." He draws his sword and hefts his shield.

"I'll be joining you soon," I drawl. "But don't let that stop you from killing it yourself if you can, old man." He glares at me again, and I shrug and wait for him to return to the courtyard before I collapse again. My breath comes out in hisses and I can barely draw a lungful of air without seeing black creep back into my vision. I do not know how long I can remain conscious for. But I cannot stay here, as safe as I feel with my back pressed against solid stone. I have to move.

I inch my way up the wall and slip around it to the base of the stairs and start to climb them. Up is the only way to go. I've already learned my lesson on buzzing about the ogre's feet on the ground.

A few of the Redcliffe archers come running down the stairs and try to help me ascend. Ordinarily I would shake them away, but I need their help this time, and need it enough that I swallow my panic when their hands fall on my shoulders and the inevitable smell of fish enters my nose. Redcliffe soldiers, of course, are well fed on fish fresh from Lake Calenhad's waters. But I have no time to give in to my fears now. And it would not do their morale any good to see any fear in their Warden's eyes.

"Where are you trying to get to, serah?" one of them asks. He almost looks like Shelly, except he is a few years older and his nose is a fair bit wider. He has the brown eyes and brown hair and pale skin of a Fereldan, and speaks like a native of the Bannorn. It is probably his own family he defends in the castle right now.

I grunt and nod to where I last saw Leliana in reply. "Get me to where my friend is, if you can."

"All right, serah." The soldier hesitates. "If you don't mind me carrying you..."

"Whatever it takes," I say, biting the inside of my cheek. At least he had the courtesy to ask.

He scoops me up in his arms like he is carrying a child and begins running up the stairs two at a time. I keep my left arm folded across my chest and hold back my scream as his movements jar every broken bone in my body. It is more important to reach Leliana right now; if I survive this, all of the pain will be just a bad memory once Wynne gets to me.

Leliana is hiding by the broken parapet on the wall-walk, covered from head to toe in dust. Her quiver is empty and the arrow I saw her nock before the ogre threw its boulder at her lies in the rubble by her feet. Her blue eyes widen when she sees me, and she sits up, moving forward in a low crouch that would have my thighs screaming in minutes to meet us.

"Are you all right, Daen?" she asks anxiously. The solder sets me down and I nod in thanks. She sees how my arm dangles and pulls her helmet off of her head to get a better look at it. "Is it broken?"

"A little," I reply, keeping my voice light so that she does not worry too much. She pulls a dark handkerchief from her beltpouch and makes a sling of sorts out of it for me. I manage to turn a scream into only a cough as she secures my arm and bite my lip for the rest.

"I do not think Loghain is doing well against the ogre on his own," she reports. "Do you have a plan?"

"Something like that." I chance a look over the wall and watch Loghain barely manage to avoid a downward blow from the ogre's clenched fist. I draw Starfang from its sheathe and stand still, watching Loghain circle out of the ogre's reach again while Soris snaps at its toes. "I'm going to do something that might not work. Do me a favor and tell the archers not to hit me while I give it a shot, would you?"

"But what are you—"

I see my opening and take it without waiting for Leliana to finish. My father has always said that there is a fine line between stupidity and bravery. I am not the smartest—as Wynne has freely pointed out every time she has to heal me—and that is probably why I can do something like this now. If I do not survive this, I am sure Wynne will send me to Andraste with the heat of the abuse she heaps on my corpse.

I back up a few steps and run for the edge of the parapet. I get my foot up onto the upper lip and spring off, and barely catch Leliana's gasp as I hurtle past her.

I land on the ogre's turned head with a grunt and black out again from the pain. I have my feet hooked on its horns and I mold myself to its skull, waiting for my vision to clear. The ogre felt me land, of course, and begins to shake its head and try to scrape me off with its hands, but its own horns are in the way, and it roars and seems to forget about me as I hear Soris bark and Loghain let out a hoarse shout somewhere below. I feel it lift a foot and bring it down as if it is trying to crush something beneath its heel and thank Andraste I heard nothing but ground break beneath.

The ogre throws its head forward and my weight shifts too quickly for me to stop my downward slide. I hear Leliana scream something and the sound of an arrow cutting through air, and the ogre roars and staggers to the side. I swing around its neck instead of pitching forward and to my certain death headfirst on the ground below, and only manage to save myself in time by wrestling my arm out of Leliana's bandana and grabbing hold of its pebble-skinned ear. I plant my boots on the makeshift pieces of armor it wears on its shoulder and pray that the ogre does not make any sudden moves in the next breath.

This is not a good position to be in. My eyes are only starting to clear, and I quickly discover that my head is uncomfortably close to the ogre's jaws, and its breath is even worse with my face a few inches away from actually lying on its tongue. Leliana yells something again. Bowstrings release and the ogre arches its back and screams as more arrows bite into its back. "Stop that," I shout, although I doubt anyone can hear me over the ogre's roar. My arm and ribs are like knives stabbing into me; I cannot even feel the ogre's ear beneath my hand. I start to slip.

Zev's face appears in my mind, shadowed in moonlight and speaking of a woman named Rinna who he watched die at his feet. My mouth goes dry and my heart throbs in my ears. How could I have been so stupid? He is standing behind me. He watches everything.

I cannot die in front of him. I have to end this now.

I haul myself up, ignoring the flashes of numbing electricity gnawing through my arm, and draw Starfang back as far as it will go. I see my reflection in the ogre's flat black eyes as it opens its maw again. I cannot hesitate, so I do not.

I plunge Starfang straight into the ogre's mouth, jabbing it in at an upward angle and towards where I hope its brain is.

The ogre's next scream is just a gurgle. Purple-black ichor bubbles out of its mouth and spills over my arm. Its jaws start to close and its craggy teeth touch my arm. It staggers backwards. My vision fades again, and I hang on to Starfang's hilt despite the pressure from the ogre's teeth, because I do not know when the ogre will fall or what I can do otherwise.

A whisper crescendos in my ear. It is like hearing a thousand people confess their darkest desires at once. I feel my blood sing with the thousand, joining them until the sounds press against the walls of my skin. The sound rises like a wave that crashes on my head as the ogre takes another faltering step backwards. And then it is gone.

When the ogre does fall, it is sheer luck that it falls on its back. I go with it and black out completely as my body is jarred with the impact. I even seem to hear nothing but black, and smell it, too; I float in an empty void, and cannot even feel Starfang's hilt in my hand. The only thing that I sense is my heart thudding like a drum in my chest. So I am still alive, at least. Good. I cannot die in front of Zev.

I could just go to sleep like this. Maybe I already am.

Hands grab my shoulders and roll me on my back, and arms scoop me up and carry me away. I draw a breath to protest and start to cough and cannot stop, even though I wish desperately that I could; every movement makes my ribs scream anew. Whoever carries me says nothing and moves quickly, but when they put me down, it is as gently as if I was made of glass. I do not even realize that I am no longer being carried until the arms leave. I blink up at empty sky, the broad expanse of blue broken by snow-tipped tree branches. It is so clear and vivid that it seems like I am staring into a cracked mirror reflecting the sky, and for a moment I do not know where I am.

I grab the tree trunk behind me with my right hand and drag myself to my feet, swaying unsteadily and still coughing. It is the only tree in the courtyard, and has managed to survive the fight intact. The courtyard itself is silent and empty of all darkspawn, save their corpses. Zev's back is turned to me as he stalks back to the ogre's crumpled form, but I knew those arms that carried me here. I hesitate, leaning against the tree, wondering if I am strong enough to follow him.

"It isn't wise to stand, elf."

I turn my head and match Loghain's glower with my own. He stands a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest and his brow pinched.

"Well, I've never really been known to be the wise one," I grunt. "That's your job between the two of us."

He snorts. "Don't sell yourself short, elf," he says, a little grudgingly.

I shoot him a surprised look while trying to catch my breath. "Don't tell me I actually managed to impress you."

My fellow Warden does not reply at first. "You are not the best fighter I have ever encountered," Loghain says finally. "And certainly not the strongest, and far from the most intimidating." He pauses again before continuing. "But you are not stupid."

"Thanks. I try."

"I do not mean it lightly, elf. There is a spirit in you that I have not seen since I fought beside Maric. You are like him, in many ways. A little less impulsive, but not by much, from what I saw today." He glances over my shoulder. "But Maric did not have one like your Antivan intent on coddling him."

I track his gaze. Zev is cleaning his stilettos one by one on the sides of his pants before slipping both back into his boots. He bends to retrieve Fang as well, then pulls Starfang free of the ogre's slack maw with a boot on the side of its face for leverage. Starfang comes free with some reluctance, but its blue starmetal length shines with stubborn resilience beneath the coating of the ogre's blood.

"It is a dangerous thing you two have."

I shoot a sharp look at him. Loghain does not flinch, but I would not have expected him to, anyway. "If I needed another Wynne in the group," I growl, "I'd at least make sure he was a mage." I start coughing before I can stop myself. Sweet Maker, that hurts.

He straightens his back. "Well, I'll go fetch her. She's needed out here, anyway."

"Loghain," I say impulsively as he turns towards the castle. He looks back at me. I still do not like him. But I am stuck with him for the rest of this Blight. "I'm sorry. Thank you."

He inclines his head. "I'll fetch your mage," he repeats, and walks away.

Zevran barely spares a glance at Loghain as they pass each other, but Loghain does not return the favor—he gives Zev a glare that should have set him on fire. I raise my eyebrows at that, but forget my surprise by the time I draw my next straggling breath. Zev is looking at me, and I am suddenly anxious to show him that I am still all right.

"Hi," I say casually as he draws near. I lean against the tree trunk in what I hope is a relaxed pose. Every breath I take is accompanied by a sharp jab of pain on both sides of my torso, like daggers striking upward at my heart. I do not need a surer confirmation that the ogre did break some ribs when it squeezed me in its fist. I hope Wynne has not used all of her lyrium.

"The next time you wish for a hug, you need only ask me," Zev says. He leans Starfang against the side of the tree and fixes Soris with a sharp look. "Go see what is keeping Wynne from your _estupiyo_ master, dog."

And Soris, who barely acknowledges Zev beyond tolerating a scratch or two and growling when he comes near me, obeys instantly, turning on his hind paws and shooting off like a furry arrow towards the entrance to the castle.

Andraste's blood. I must look even worse than I feel.

"Loghain already went to get her," I say.

"Loghain is too slow."

"Maybe Wynne's too tired to come out here." I am nearly too tired myself. My legs are trying to fold beneath me, but I have a feeling that that will not be good for my ribs, so I do my best to keep them straight and me upright. Leaning on the tree helps.

"If our lovely Wynne has exhausted herself already, I will drag her here myself and save her the extra exertion," he snaps. He folds his arms over his chest and eyes me like Wynne does when I have run off and done something stupid, and I gasp and start to chuckle between each pant for air, even though I can feel my ribs complain and the pain worsen in my sides. "And what is so funny?"

"You...you look like Wynne. Same face," I wheeze. I can barely swallow my laughter.

"A pity her face is not what does the healing, then." Zev sighs and watches me strain to compose myself. "You should lie down until she gets here."

"Good idea," I say, and inch my way down the tree. It is slow going, and harder to lie down than it was to stand up. My broken arm makes things harder. Zev helps by slipping his forearm across the back of my shoulders, easing me down to the ground.

"I have good ideas every now and then, it is true. It certainly was not my idea to go jumping on top of an ogre like it is a haystack. Concentrate on just breathing for now, yes?"

"I can do that." I close my eyes. "How's your leg?"

He is in the middle of settling himself beside me, and pauses in his descent. "My leg is fine. How is your arm and ribs?" I do not answer him. I can hear him avoiding putting weight on his wounded leg as he sits—a vain liar, my Antivan. He probably thought I did not notice. But he is always dancing in the corner of my eye, especially in a fight. Anyway, I will not risk Zev catching the blight, not when we have come this far together. I will ask Wynne to look after him first when she gets here. If she ever does.

But I do not mind that we have to wait a little. When my eyes are closed like this, I can hear the air moving through the tips of the tree above us. It smells like spring. The snow will be melting soon.

His voice is as soft as a fragment of the wind itself when he speaks again. "You know, _amora_, if this is how you handle darkspawn of very large size, you may wish to consider leaving the Archdemon to Loghain. I do not think the Archdemon's embrace will be as gentle as your ogre friend's was."

I smile. "After my ogre friend...Archdemon...no problem."

"Hmm," he replies. "Archdemons have wings, no?" But he says nothing more. His gloved fingers drift across my face, brushing my hair back behind my ear.

The tree rustles again with another breath of air, and its sharp green scent settles in my nose. It does not smell exactly like the _vhenedhal_, but with my eyes closed, it is close enough to how it smells when I am deep in its boughs. I can nearly fool myself into believing that I am at home again, watching my family live their lives about the _vhenedhal_'s feet and looking to the horizon and dreaming of the world that lay there. The world was a little different than I thought it would be, but I still wanted to see more.

"'Sides, hugging's your job. 'Least you don't break my ribs."

"_Si_." He knuckles my forehead. "_Gatto_." I laugh and snatch at his fingers with my hand, even though it hurts to do so. I cannot help it. He lets me catch him, and when I open my eyes and smile up at him, he is smiling down at me, too, framed by the sky and the bare branches of the tree above him. Bronze and wheat on brilliant sky blue, like something my mother would have embroidered. Maker's breath, it hurts to look at him.

Did He actually hear me when I prayed that night in the Brecilian? My chest swells with a weak happiness, a tiny bit for me to savor in the middle of a world that was broken and lost for so many years of my life, and is only beginning to come together while the country falls apart instead. I could float away right now. I feel no more pain.

The future and the present have never seemed so close together. All I have is a Blight in between.

* * *

_Antivan__:  
_Estupiyo = stupid (yeah)

_Err...technically it still feels like Sunday where I am, kind of. Because I haven't gone to sleep yet. Haha!_

_Thanks to the new followers. And _Cielshadow17_, thank you as always for your comments. :)_

_Until next time._

_-K_

_[01/21/2013-fixed continuity errors and a misspelling. That's what editing without sleep will do to ya. -K]_


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

_"And what would your Antivan think of that?"_

What, indeed.

I know what my Antivan would think about me killing the Archdemon. He would not let me do it if he knew that it would mean my death. Still I meet Loghain's eyes squarely with my arms crossed and feet planted beneath my shoulders, and still I wonder if the fear I feel reaches my eyes the way I think it does.

He has offered to take the final blow despite what Riordan has told us, and I am tempted to say yes. It will be worse than death, to hear Riordan describe it. To have my soul destroyed—it will be worse than Oblivion. I cannot even imagine it. There will not even be a scar for Wynne to heal. There will be nothing left of me at all; not even a shred to wander the Fade while it waits. This scares me more than I thought it would.

But I cannot say yes so easily to Loghain. It is not an easy thing to accept.

"Why would you offer yourself?" I ask. "I'm the senior Warden. I should be the first to strike, not you."

He shrugs. "And that is why I am asking you to let me kill the Archdemon rather than knocking you out and doing it myself."

"That's considerate of you."

"Don't get smart with me, elf. If I fail, you will be the last hope for all of Ferelden." Loghain seems to hesitate, and smoothes his voice when he speaks again. "And I have much less to lose than you do."

I snort. "Hah. I wasn't born yesterday, Loghain. You're still a folk hero and your daughter will be the Queen of Ferelden for the second time around. Seems to me you've got plenty to lose. The question is, what are you even more afraid of losing?"

"Nothing that you haven't taken from me already," he snaps, and for the first time I have seen outside of battle, his eyes do not glower and he does not hunch like a man nearing his death. I am still clad in my armor, but he had already removed his by the time Riordan called us to his room. This does not make Loghain any less imposing. He straightens to his full height and stares at me the way he did when we first met at Ostagar, when he was still a general and a king's advisor. I almost back away until I remember who I am, too. My full height is not much taller than my usual height, and my mass is nowhere near as impressive as Loghain's, even when he is not wearing his armor. But my spine is straight and I match his stare with one of my own.

"We have all had things taken from us," I say. "And you took much from me, too." I lower my voice and speak slowly, carefully enunciating each of my next words. "Humans like you deserve to die like the pigs you are. But not while you're a Warden. Now, you're mine. And you die only when I say you can. Give me a reason to say yes, Loghain. Something other than what you've given me already."

He stares at me, and some of the glower returns. "I'd heard what you did at the Arl's estate when you answered my daughter's foolish plea for a rescue. And I heard of all the men and women you killed at Fort Drakon the same day. Tell me, why do you treat humans like animals when you are no better yourself? Where is your honor?"

I laugh shortly. "So that's what this is about. You're trying to make yourself look good again, aren't you? Not very persuasive. You lost your honor when you abandoned us at Ostagar and sold my family into slavery. You're not getting it back so easily."

He falls silent. He barely blinks at the venom in my voice, but the corners of his lips drop down his jaw and the constant furrow ploughs even deeper across his brow. I wonder if it is possible for him to frown even further without splitting his entire face in half.

"Tell me, Warden, do you have no dreams for yourself?"

I am taken aback. "What are you talking about now?"

"Surely even an elf from an alienage has dreams."

I snort. "You don't know what it's like to live in an alienage."

"Tell me, then." Loghain sits on one of the two chairs in the room the Arl's seneschal has given to him and gestures for me to take the other.

I lean my back against the wall and cross my arms over my chest rather than accept his offer. "What's there to tell?"

"I am merely curious. And all children have dreams."

Was he trying to get a rise out of me? I rake my hand through my hair. "How old do you think I am, exactly?"

He shrugs. "Does it matter for a Warden? You are old enough." He pauses and eyes me up and down. "If I had to guess, I would say no more than seventeen."

"Twenty-one. Twenty-two in a few months. But you were closer than most."

To his credit, he does not look as surprised as most do when they realize that I am not exactly a teenager. "I was your age when I was driving the Orlesians out of Ferelden," he remarks.

"So?"

"Nothing. Merely an observation." Loghain pauses again. "You remind me a bit of Anora, before she married Cailan."

I snort. "I remind a lot of people of teenaged girls, for some reason."

"You should be flattered, Warden. It's in the eyes. My mother always told me to look a man in the eyes when you first meet—that way you both know who you are about to shake hands with."

"And you saw your daughter in mine?"

"Somewhat. As I said before, you also remind me of Maric. He was very charming, but a little insane on the battlefield."

"Oh, that's nice."

Loghain is still looking at me, but his eyes seem to be focusing on the wall behind me instead. "When Anora was a girl, she told me almost every time I saw her that she was going to become Queen one day." His smile is so brief that I almost miss it, but so full of fondness and wistfulness that I could not. "And she did, of course."

"You miss her," I say.

"What father doesn't miss his own child?"

I think of my own, and then of my mother, and my heart twists in my chest. "If the Queen's like me, I'm sure she misses her father, too," I say quietly. "She's the reason why you're alive. I hope you thanked her before you left Denerim."

He does not answer. "Do your parents still live in the alienage?"

"My father does."

"And your mother?"

"She died a few years ago."

"I'm sorry."

I wonder if I am imagining his sincerity. "Some humans killed her because she tried to protect me from them." I shrug. "You wanted to know what it's like to live in the alienage? There you go."

He is quiet for a few moments. "If it were me, I would have left," he finally says. He speaks slowly, like he is choosing his words carefully. "Killed the ones who hurt me and left for good."

"Well, that's what my mother did. They returned the favor."

"And you?"

I laugh shortly. "Most of us learn our lessons and stay alive. Me, I'm not the brightest, but I'm my mother's son, to be sure. I would have kept following in her footsteps if I hadn't been conscripted."

"And no one stopped you?"

"I'm not sure if you will really understand this, Loghain. I'm not sure if you can."

"Perhaps I will not. But you could try to help me understand."

I shrug again. But a part of me does want him to understand, so I try again. "When you were fighting during the Orlesian occupation, did you ever run across men and women who wouldn't fight back no matter how much wrong the Orlesians did to them?"

"Of course. I thought they were cowards."

"Not cowards. Just trying to survive." I look up at the ceiling. "All of us in the alienage are related somehow. And as a family, we've had generations of fear driving our lives. It's the fist we live under and the cage we live in. It's hard to imagine that the bars are not there when they have been since we were born." I glance back at Loghain. "It takes losing everything or getting close enough to it to make you see something else. But you wouldn't know that, would you?"

He is silent, his chin at rest upon his raised fist. The support does not cure his constant scowl, however.

"How about you tell me what you dreamed of when you were my age, Loghain?" I cross my ankles and arms.

"I dreamed of being free," he says. "I dreamed of the day when I would see the last Orlesian fleeing through the Frostbacks, or breathing his last in the dirt at my feet and with my sword in his gut."

"I guess we're not that different." But I am not being entirely honest, so I add: "I used to dream about leaving the alienage."

"But you did not until you became a Warden. That was not that long ago, was it?"

"It's been a year." It feels strange to say that out loud. "Only a year." Both the shortest and longest year of my life, but the fullest, too.

"I did leave the alienage once before I became a Warden. I thought it would be for good. I nearly died. I should have died. I would have if my father hadn't come to get me. The world outside the alienage is worse for an elf alone than it is inside. We don't have the power or the chances to make things better for ourselves, except if we stay together."

"Then why not fight back together?"

I remember my cousins and the plans they shared with me, and cannot keep from smiling. "We do fight back, in our own ways. One day we'll be free. We just need the right moment."

"If I had waited for the right moment, Ferelden would never have been freed of Orlais."

"Of course you waited. How far would you have gotten if you fought back alone, do you think?" If I had not told this to Zev already, I would have been utterly incapable of speaking of it now. But I did, and I can. "I tried it once already. My cousin Soris and I were supposed to get married on the same day. But that day, Bann Vaughan came with some of his cronies. He took all of the women in the wedding party—including my other cousin Shianni. So I told Soris we were going to save them, and that idiot went along with me even though he didn't want to. I was too angry to think clearly. And I was tired of humans taking us like we were sheep. I didn't care anymore. I killed a lot of humans that day, including Bann Vaughan. Afterwards, the guards came and would have purged everyone, and I knew that we were not ready to fight back and avoid a purge at the same time. So I turned myself in." My voice stays even and calm, although I do not know how. "You wanted to know why I treat humans like animals? It's because you are. You all are. You think we're less than human, but it is humans who are less than elves."

"We are not all that way," he says.

I snort. "You didn't think twice about selling Fereldans to the Tevinters as slaves. That doesn't make you any better than any other human who rapes and murders my family for sport, does it?"

Loghain is quiet again.

I almost think I am imagining it when he speaks again. "My father was a simple farmer who refused to pay the ridiculous taxes the Orlesians levied on our farm. I was twenty, and ready to start a family of my own. But the Orlesians came. My mother tried to reason with them, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. They dragged us all out of our home and made my mother watch while they beat my father and I until we were both barely conscious. Then they made us watch while they raped my mother one after the other. But they didn't stop there. They killed her in front of us, just because they could, and then set our home on fire."

I catch my breath and feel my body go entirely still.

"They jumped on their horses and left after that. Probably thought we were just going to give up and die. But my father...he made sure they paid. We had no choice afterwards but to flee and hide. And nothing was the same after that." He rubs his chin. "I am not proud of all of the decisions I made while we fought the Orlesians. But they were my decisions, for better or for worse, and they are what has led me here today."

Loghain stands and takes a step towards me. I uncross my arms and legs and push off of the wall, straightening my back to meet him squarely. I look into his eyes and see myself in them, and my mouth goes dry. But I cannot look away. And he does not, too.

"The only thing certain in all of our lives is what has already happened, Warden. I have always done what I have done because I believed it was for the good of Ferelden. And it led to good things—today we are free of Orlais, and my daughter is the queen of a free country. But I hurt many of my closest and dearest friends because of those same decisions. And now I have hurt you, too. I have done you and your family a great wrong. These are certainties that I can neither undo nor apologize for, not even if I had all of thirty years to try to make peace with what I have done." He breaks his gaze to bow his head, staring at the ground between us. "I am an old man. I have dreamed and seen those dreams come true. I have nothing else inside of me. Give me this, Warden. Let me haunt your steps no more."

I stare at him and do not know what to say.

This is the farmer boy who ensured that no Fereldan would be born under the heels of Orlais ever again. This is the general who watched the Grey Wardens drown in a sea of darkspawn and left his king to die. This is the father of our Queen, a woman who loves him so much that she gambled on a slim chance of survival to keep him from certain death. This is the human who cost me my family and drove Alistair away.

I walk past him towards the door. He does not look up as I go by, but I can sense his defeat in his slumped shoulders. I place my hand on the doorknob, but look back at him as I turn it.

And I see my father standing there with his back to me, age in his every line and the weariness of living eating at him to his very bones.

Thinking of my father only makes me think of home. And thinking of home only makes me think of the one person who always makes me feel like that is where I am, even when we are halfway across the country from Denerim with darkspawn crawling down our throats. I think of Zevran, and of the life we might have in the next three decades, if only we survive this Blight together.

He is a Warden and a warrior, and today he is a tired old man, too. I almost wish I had met him in his youth. He must have been a sight to behold at King Maric's side on the battlefield.

I had never truly planned to say no. But I had never expected Loghain to give me a reason to say yes.

"The Archdemon's yours," I say quietly.

He does not move. "My thanks, Warden."

I nod, although I know he will not see it, and turn again to leave. But something makes me speak again on impulse—just a few last words before I go. "You know, Alistair told me that you were not meant for the Grey Wardens. He said he couldn't trust you in battle, and that I shouldn't, either." I look over my shoulder at him. "For what it's worth, I'll trust you with my back until the end. And you can trust me with yours."

"I am not worthy of that. But my thanks," he replies. "Rest well tonight, Warden."

"You as well, Warden," I say, and shut his door behind me.

I walk away from his door and down the hall to my own private room and wonder what has just transpired. But in the end, the only answer is that Loghain wants to die. And I will let him. I laugh softly. This draws an odd look from the young serving girl Eamon's seneschal assigned to me, who sits by my door folding linens. I barely notice her glance.

Problems solve themselves when I least expect them to, apparently. But why does this answer feel so much like it is the wrong one?

No. It is not just that this answer of all answers was wrong. This entire situation is wrong. Duncan lied. _This_ was why we need Wardens during a Blight. It was bad enough when I had believed I would die fighting darkspawn on the Deep Roads. And, despite all of the darkspawn we had faced until now and no matter how poorly I had fared against them, some part of me had always clung to the hope that I would survive this Blight and live those last few years of my life until my Calling. But to face the possibility of death so much sooner—and not even just death. The Wardens asked me to give up my life to them, and I did. But my soul?

And I had dragged Loghain straight into this mess by letting him live. He deserves to die, but to die like this? He will be my responsibility in the end. And his death will be my own stupid fault.

Blessed Andraste and the Maker, what choices are these? Why are they in my incapable hands? There must be another solution. Traps always have releases; trip wires can always be cut. Show me where the answer is, Maker. I swear I will take it.

"You have a visitor, serah," the girl says as I draw closer. She stands and folds her small hands before her stomach and looks up at me expectantly. She has a round face and brown eyes that are almost too large for her face, and her hair is mostly blonde. It gleams vaguely reddish in the low lights of the torches that burn along the walls, but not nearly as red as Shianni's. And she is elven, of course, but still an adolescent—her age makes her one of the few people in this castle who is actually shorter than I am. I wonder where her parents are before I catch myself. The halls and common areas and every available room in the castle is filled to capacity, but many of Redcliffe's people had not survived to see tonight.

I return my thoughts to what the serving girl said. "A visitor?"

"I tried to send her away, but she...insisted." The girl fidgets on her feet and drops her eyes to her toes.

I feel a smile touch my lips. "Black or grey?"

"Pardon, serah?"

"Her hair."

"Black, serah." She swallows. "And yellow eyes, like a cat's."

Morrigan, of course, but I do not know why she is here. "I hope she didn't scare you too badly."

"She threatened to turn me into a newt, serah."

"She can't do that. Don't worry. Thanks for letting her in." I pause as I reach for the handle on my door. "What was your name again?"

"Everyone calls me Melly, serah."

"Is that short for something?"

She swallows audibly. "Melon."

I can see why she is called that, looking at her plump face, but that does not make the name any less cruel. "That can't be your real name."

"It's what everyone calls me." She looks at her toes again. "I don't have parents. The servants in the castle raised me."

"Do you like being called Melly?"

Melly looks at me like I have sprouted a second head. I have to smile at that. "It's better than Melon."

"Okay, Melly. I'm Daen. It isn't short for anything. Just call me Daen, would you? And you don't have to stay out here all night."

She eyes me beneath the scruff of bangs scattered across her forehead. "Serah, if you don't mind me asking, are you looking for some privacy for a reason? Because I've never seen an elf with a human woman for a lover before. I know you're a Warden, but how did you manage that?"

I laugh awkwardly. "Er, how old are you, Melly?"

"Eleven." She lifts her chin at a defiant angle. I like her instantly. "Sometimes the other servants get sent to one of the Arl's guests, or have to stay in a guard's room all night. I've heard what happens in there."

"Oh." I should have known that Eamon's household would not treat their elves any differently than the Denerim nobility did.

"Eda keeps telling me that I'm going to have to take my turn when I get older, but I'm going to leave Redcliffe before that happens."

I nod. "That sounds good. Be careful out there."

"I'm making friends with one of the mabari. I'm going to take her with me when I leave."

This only makes me like her more. I hope Melly does manage to escape before anything bad happens to her. "Well, Melly, to answer your question, Morrigan is just a good friend of mine, and she probably needs to talk to me about something. I just don't want you to feel like you have to stay out here because you're probably tired after today, and I can take care of myself."

"I don't mind."

I give her a stern look. "Get going. You can tell Eda or whoever that the Warden ordered you back to your room because he needed some privacy."

Melly twists her short fingers in her skirts and scrunches her brows together. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Melly. Now scoot."

I wait until her little back has disappeared around a corner before entering my room. Morrigan is the first thing I see—but how could I not? She stands haloed in light, her eyes glowing as though the light of the lit fireplace behind her has leaped into their depths. Her arms are folded across her chest, and she studies me silently as I close the door behind me and turn back to her.

"'Tis about time you came in. I thought that insufferable child would never leave."

"She meant well." I raise my brow. "Did you really threaten to turn her into a newt?"

"I did." Morrigan sniffs and uncrosses her arms to rest one hand on her hip, the other grasping her staff firmly at her side. "If you are looking for your mutt, I sent him off to the kennels for the night."

"Why's that?"

"Because I wished to speak with you in private."

"Well, I guess this is as private as it gets, then." I shrug and unbuckle my armor. My pack waits for me where I placed it at the foot of my too-large bed before leaving to speak with Riordan, and I bend to rifle through its depths in search of oil and a brush to clean my armor and weapons with. "What did you want to talk about?"

A hand reaches out and covers mine, and I nearly jump out of my skin and look up to find Morrigan's face mere inches away from mine. I did not know she could move so quietly. Either that, or I am more tired than I realize.

"What?" I say blankly. She does not reply. I leave off searching for my cleaning supplies and stand, taking up Morrigan's hand in my opposite one and holding it against the back of my other. There is a strange strained feeling in her eyes tonight, as though she has not slept in a few days. I had not noticed it earlier today. Perhaps she was simply weary from healing as many wounded as she did today, but Morrigan is like a bird—she never shows anything until she cannot muster the strength to hide it any longer. There is something disturbing her mind tonight, and I can only hope it is not more bad news like Riordan's.

"I'm sorry about what happened at the Arl's estate in Denerim, Morrigan," I finally say.

She raises a brow and draws her hand away from mine. I feel some relief when she finally replies. "'Tis the past."

"I should have—"

"What? Protected me?" Morrigan snorts. "I need no protecting, Warden. No, 'twas you who needed the protecting then." She pauses. "And later as well, perhaps."

I do not know what she means. She looks at me and lowers her voice. "There are some advantages to being able to shapeshift into animals. They have much keener senses than humans."

"What do you—oh." I nearly choke on my tongue at that.

Her voice softens almost imperceptibly. "I...am glad you returned to us."

I laugh and scratch my head. "I don't know why I try to hide anything from any of you. You all always find out in the end."

"Well, 'tis certain Alistair never knew, the addlebrained idiot."

"Thank the Maker for that, I guess."

"Indeed." She pauses. "And did you kill them?"

"All of them, eventually."

Morrigan smiles.

I laugh nervously. "But you're right. It's the past."

"Ah. I see."

"Are you all right? You seem a little tired."

She turns away abruptly. "I am not tired, my friend."

"Okay," I say soothingly. "I'll take your word for it."

Morrigan stays with her back to me, her shoulders gathered like a hunting cat's just before it springs upon its prey. I decide to take a seat on the bed while I wait for her to speak again, and it creaks comfortably beneath me as I settle myself down. I pull my boots and socks off and stretch my toes out before me. The give of the mattress hints at how soft the bed will be, and every inch of me longs to crawl beneath the thick covers to sleep today off. But I cannot rest until I know that Morrigan is well. She has never approached me in the past year that I have known her, always waiting at her own tent for me to come to her first. I can only guess that waiting for me in my room tonight means that she has something to say to me that I will not like.

Morrigan whirls around so suddenly that I actually do jump in my seat. Her eyes are narrow and sharp, all signs of weariness gone so completely that I wonder for a moment if I had only imagined what I had seen earlier. "And how did your talk with the Orlesian Warden go?"

I blink. "How did you—"

"I did not know. I merely knew that it was to happen. And I knew what he would speak of."

I nearly leap back to my feet at that. "You knew? How long have you known?"

"Since the beginning." She levels her eyes on me again. "It is why my mother sent me with you."

"She sent you with me because she knew that I was going to die if I killed the Archdemon." I laugh bitterly. "What am I missing?"

"You are missing that she sent me with you as a solution to your certain death."

I do not move, but my heart leaps in my chest. "A solution?"

"Yes." She slinks forward, the point of her staff clicking against the bare stone floor with every step. "You were informed that the Archdemon's soul slips into the nearest darkspawn upon its death and survives in that form unless the soul is a Warden's, correct?"

I hide the shudder I feel running up my spine. "Yes."

"Then here is the solution." She rests an open hand on her abdomen. "Lie with me tonight, Warden. With the aid of my magic, we shall conceive a child together who carries the taint within it. When you go to slay the Archdemon, take me with you. When you dispense the final blow, the Archdemon's essence shall be drawn not to you, but to the soul of the unborn child within me."

"I...that can't...that can't be possible," I stammer. I shake my head and steady myself. "Isn't that just going to kill the child? You can't possibly—"

"The babe will not die," Morrigan interrupts smoothly. The click of her staff falls silent as she stops in front of me. I have to tilt my head to meet her eyes above mine. "Recall that the Archdemon is but a corrupted Old God. The child will take the Archdemon within itself, and from that will be born something even greater."

"A monster," I say weakly.

"Nay. An uncorrupted Old God, pure in every respect." She reclines her staff on the side of the bed, leaning towards me as she does so. She is so close that I can smell the elfroot on her skin. She has been working with it all day. I breathe that astringent note in and can feel my mind weakening with every breath. Is this a better answer than the one Loghain offered to me only moments before?

"I can't...do this," I finally croak. I pause to clear my throat. "You'll bring another Blight on the world."

"I have my ways," she says calmly. "I promise you, the child and I will not be the cause of the next Blight." I am not convinced. But...

No. "I can't do this to Zev." He is a reason—and an excuse. I ask him to forgive me mentally.

"Think, Warden. Think of what you will be doing to him instead when the Archdemon slips inside of your soul and destroys you completely." She leans closer, resting her fingertips on either side of me. I scoot away an inch, but can go no further. "I have seen the way you two look at each other. 'Tis sickening. And a foolish sentiment, but not one without its uses. Why ignore the hope it gives you? Do you not wish to see what life will be like with him after this?"

I swallow. "Loghain's already offered to take the blow."

"Excuses, Warden. I know you far better than you give me credit for. And it does not change that it will only be you left to kill the Archdemon should he fail. And should you fail as well?" Morrigan tilts her head to one side, but slips her hands over my shoulders rather than answer her own question. "Why the reluctance, Warden? Is it that you have never lain with a woman before?"

My fingernails bite into my palm. I gulp again before I lift my eyes to meet her gaze. Women were less likely to come through the alienage than men, but more than half of my clients at the Pearl had been female. And they had all been humans, of course. Even twins, once. But...

"None of them were you," I reply honestly. I feel her draw back ever so slightly at my words.

None of them were. But no one else could be Morrigan, wild, proud, beautiful Morrigan, with eyes brighter than the unclouded moon and hair as dark as a crow's wing. Morrigan the apostate, who could care less what the world thought of her, Morrigan the strong, who had given me a ring once that she said would keep us together. But she would not let me get any closer, and I had to give the ring back.

I killed her mother for her. After she told me what Flemeth had planned for her, the choice had been easy. I owed Flemeth for saving my life, and Alistair's—but I could not bear to see Morrigan as anyone except who she was. Her life was hers and hers alone, and she made sure everyone knew it.

I used to wonder how different things might have been. But I would not give Zev up for anything now.

This thought freezes my mind, and I feel my fingers relax and ease my nails out of my own flesh.

"Do not make this any more complicated than it need be, Warden," she says quietly, as if she reads my thoughts. I had given the ring back to her a few weeks ago, but Morrigan had never needed it to know what I was thinking. She is right; I give her much less credit than she deserves.

"If I do this, what happens afterwards?" I ask.

She tilts her head. "You go your way. I go mine. We do not meet again."

I look away. She catches my face with her hand and turns it back towards her, forcing me to meet her yellow-eyed glare. "Do not be a fool like the rest of them, Daen. This is your chance to live. 'Twill mean your death otherwise."

"I might die anyway," I temporize. "I don't think the Archdemon's going to just roll over and let us stick him in the belly."

Morrigan sighs. "Jokes will be the death of you. 'Tis meant literally. Take your blond twit as insurance, if you are so worried. He did perfectly well against my mother."

"Your mother almost swatted him into her hut."

"A pity she did not have better aim."

"Hah." I smile because I know that is what she expects. Morrigan has always had a very strange way of comforting me when she knew I was not feeling well.

"Well, but he returned all in one piece, did he not?"

I manage a laugh. "You weren't there. I don't think Zev does well against dragons. I don't want him to get hurt."

"My apologies. Did you not receive the note about this being a Blight?" Now Morrigan gives one of her rare laughs, although hers are never any more than a few dry chuckles. "He constantly hovers over you, even when there is a gate between the both of you," she continues wryly. "He will get hurt, believe me. With a bodyguard like that, 'twill be you who has the best chance of coming out of this in one piece of us all, Warden."

I cannot laugh at that. I cannot even try. I _am_ a fool. Of course I know that he will get hurt in the days to come. But the thought of him getting hurt because of me chills me to the bone, almost as much as the idea of dying and losing my soul in the process.

Something must have shown in my eyes. Morrigan leans forward again, replacing her arms on my shoulders, and drifting so close that her lips lie directly against my ear. My senses drown in elfroot immediately. "He will not let you die, Warden. You know this as well as I do. You can only save him by saving yourself."

Sweet Maker, is this Your answer, then? How could You ask for such sacrifices when it is You who stands with Your back to us?

"You shouldn't have to do this, Morrigan," I whisper, and encircle her slender waist with my arms and hold her close between them. "Not for anyone or anything." And I close my eyes.

* * *

_Note: Sorry, sorry, sorry. Work is killing me. The good news is that the next chapter should be posted as expected next Sunday...and, appropriately enough given its contents, just in time for Valentine's Day. Mwahahahaha._

_I've always found the whole Dark Ritual thing to be very uncomfortable and a cheapening of Morrigan's character._

Denfree_, _Cielshadow17_, _anestezja—_thank you so much for your kind words._

_Until next time._

_-K_


	15. Chapter 15

_Note__: I'll be honest, I'm __a little _errrgh_ about this chapter. But it is what it is, so here it is. Renewed reminder that _Clouds _is rated M for a reason._

* * *

CHAPTER 15

After Morrigan leaves, I stare around my empty room. It is far too large for me alone, and that makes it seem even emptier. I smooth the creases in the bedsheets down on impulse, but I cannot get them as tight and straight as the servants made them. I smell elfroot. I smell Morrigan, who is gone.

My pack slouches on the floor by the bed, and I kick it on impulse. I had been in the middle of emptying and repacking it before Riordan called me to his room, and its hollowed body is no match for my foot. It topples over. Two pieces of silver spill out of the open flap and catch the firelight. I frown and squat to inspect them.

The first is the ring that had been meant for Nesiara. I had forgotten that I still had it. The groom traditionally makes one for the bride, and places it on her index finger during the wedding ceremony, on the same hand the statues of Andraste hold over their hearts. Mother Boann told me that we do this because the Maker gave Andraste a ring to recognize Her as His bride. My cousin Soris could not find a verse saying that in the Chant itself, and only the newer statues I have seen on my travels have a ring carved on their right forefinger. Still, the ring is a traditional part of the ceremony. I stare at the crude piece I made and am suddenly relieved Nesiara never had to see it. But I find myself wondering how it would look on a different hand—one that is bronze and rough with calluses—and feel heat rise in my cheeks.

I stick the ring in my pocket reflexively and turn to examining the second item. This one is the pendant Alistair gave me after my Joining nearly a year ago, a simple silver amulet set with a dark stone on a silver chain. Something to remember those we lost by, he said. And something that only served to remind me of what I had just become. I had not forgotten about it, unlike the ring; I had only stuffed it in the bottom of my pack and tried not to think of it again. This time I turn it over in my fingers before slipping it over my head and hiding it in my shirt, flinching as the cold settles on my chest over my heart.

Everything tonight is determined to remind me of who I am. Eamon's seneschal, for one, has been very unsubtle, placing Zev and I in two separate rooms. Zev shares his in a different part of the castle entirely, bunking with Oghren and Sten. It will be hard for me to remember how to find my way there, especially after what just happened. My heart aches. I tuck my head into my knees and clasp my legs against me.

But Eamon's seneschal can go straight to Oblivion. This night of all nights, I need Zev with me. And no Fereldan sense of propriety and politics is going to keep me away.

I stand and open the door as quietly as I can manage, and only as wide as I need to slip out. It creaks, but here is no one in the hallway to hear it. Loghain's door is firmly shut beside mine, and if he is not cleaning his armor and weapons, he is likely asleep by now. I stay to the shadows and tread on silent feet, trying to remember where the other guest rooms are in the castle.

Just when I think I might be lost, Melly bustles past, her round arms laden with a tray of food and bottles of drink. I clear my throat gently as she goes by. She whirls quickly, eyes wide, but manages to keep her load steady before her. I step forward and take the tray from her.

"Maker's balls, were you trying to give me a heart attack? I'm too young for one," she scolds like an aunty five times her age. I smile; she must have had those same lines delivered to her many times before.

"Sorry, Melly. Just looking for some of my friends. Which room has the qunari, the dwarf, and the other elf?"

"Ugh. The room I'm going to, actually." Melly frowns and shifts her feet beneath her. "Your friends are scary, Daen. The qunari never says anything and I feel like I need to take a bath every time the dwarf and the elf look at me. Especially the elf."

I hide another smile and reach out and take the tray from her, lifting my brows at the weight on my arms. It is manageable for me, but I cannot see how an eleven-year-old can carry it without tipping over.

"Show me the way. I'll bring this over to them."

"Are you sure?" She resumes walking as she speaks, clearly not intending on taking the tray back from me.

"I'm sure," I say anyway. "And didn't I tell you to go to sleep?"

"Yeah, I tried. Got swept right back out again, though." Melly puffs a stream of breath up through her thick bangs, blowing them briefly into the air. "Even told Eda that the Warden said so. She said she didn't care if you were Andraste reborn, because you aren't the one in charge of the kitchens. So here I am."

I am quietly taking note of the route she takes so that I can find my way back to my room, but I have to laugh at her words. "Well, I hope this is the last thing you have to take care of tonight."

"No way. Eda says the silver needs polishing. Really! In the middle of a Blight!" Melly throws her head back on her little neck and tosses a strangled scream to the ceiling. I laugh again. I do like her. She drops her eyes and looks down at my feet. "By the way, did you know you aren't wearing shoes?"

"Yes, I think I forgot about those back in my room. I'm okay. Wardens don't really feel the cold."

"Lucky. Wish I didn't have to feel the cold, too." She makes an exaggerated shivering motion. "Well, here's where your friends are, Daen. Should I come in with you?"

"That's all right. Just help me with the door and then you can get started on the silver. The sooner you start, the sooner you can sleep, right?"

"Right." Melly knocks on the wooden door before us and leans forward to yell into the keyhole. "Serahs? I've got food and drink for you."

There is a pause, and then the sound of heavy feet crossing the room. The door opens and Oghren stands in its frame, his other hand deep inside his pants and scratching at his crotch. Melly's face twists into a look of undisguised horror and disgust at the sight. I toe her ankle with my boot to get her attention and jerk my chin over my shoulder for her to leave. She curtsies swiftly and dashes off down the hallway.

"Yer a funny-lookin' serving girl," Oghren growls, peering up at me. "Have I seen ye somewhere before?"

I chuckle and nod into the room. "Mind if I come in for a bit, Oghren?"

"Well, sure. I ain't carryin' that tray for ye." Oghren steps to the side and allows me to enter. He does a double take as I go past. "Wait a minute, yer the Warden. Thought ye had yer own fancy private room?"

"I do. But I..." I stop in my tracks as amber eyes lock onto mine. He had been sitting on the windowsill, polishing a stiletto with a rag damp with something that smells oily and herbal, and rises lazily as I enter, sheathing the blade in his boot and tossing the rag into the fire. Sten, who sits cross-legged on the floor with Asala on his knees, spares me an austere nod before closing his eyes again and resuming his meditations.

"Did you need something, Warden?" Zev asks. His voice is as smooth and warm as always, but it is his eyes that make me feel weak in the knees. I set the tray I hold down quickly so that the others do not hear how the bottles rattle against one another.

"Yes, I..." My mind races. "I need a haircut," I lie glibly.

"Oh?" he replies archly. Oghren grumbles something unintelligible and stumps resolutely towards the food, while Sten comes as close to raising an eyebrow as I have ever seen. I am fooling nobody, least of all Zev. And I do not care.

"Right. So...get your things and come with me." I clear my throat awkwardly. "That's, er, an order."

He chortles. I resist the urge to kick him. "Your wish is my command, oh wise and fearsome master."

I wait for him to gather his pack, shifting my weight back and forth between my feet and probably fidgeting more than Soris does when he sees me walking towards him with a bone in my hand. Zev makes an exaggerated showing of looking about his feet to make sure he has everything, and I nearly give in to my urge to kick him while I wait. When he finally rises and joins me at the door, he is all half smile and lazy lids. I refuse to look at him and glance back at Oghren and Sten.

"Well, see you two tomorrow," I say.

Sten says nothing, but Oghren snorts. "Don' let him take more 'n an inch, Warden," he says snidely, and stuffs a breadroll into his mouth.

I could kill him. Maker save me from the fiends I travel with. I sigh and leave, Zev trailing behind me.

When we are alone in the hallway and with the door closed firmly behind us, I finally do elbow Zev in his gut and snort as he grunts with the blow. He barely twitches, and I know that the sound was more for show than because he was actually hurt. I begin to retrace Melly's path back to my room, and he falls into step beside me.

"I will have a hard time trimming your lovely hair if I am too occupied nursing bruises," he says lightly, leaning into my ear to whisper this into its depths. I shiver as he intended for me to and elbow him again to get him to stand up straight.

"Bruises are going to be the least of your concerns if you keep that up," I growl.

"Is that a promise?" he asks, his voice so teasing that I feel my ears flare with heat instantly.

"Yes," I reply steadily. If there is one thing being with Zev has taught me, it is how to remain calm even while my face is probably redder than a fish's gills.

"Well, then I look forward to seeing it fulfilled."

"I bet you do."

"It is good I am not a betting man." He laughs and drapes his arm across my shoulders. There is no mistaking the gesture for anything less than what he means it to mean tonight. I press myself to his side and we pace together in comfortable silence.

He does not speak again until we turn down the hallway leading to my room. "You do know I am still angry with you, _amora_," he says so smoothly I have to check to see if he is serious. He is.

"For what?" I start to draw away from him, but his arm tightens around me.

"For nearly getting yourself killed. You should have left Loghain as the bait. He is disposable; you are not."

I cough to hide how my throat suddenly tightens. "He isn't disposable. He's...he's a Warden, too."

"He is not you."

"Loghain isn't as bad as he seems. He's just had a hard life."

"Is there such a thing as an easy life? I did not know that." Zev smiles tightly. No, I think, he would not. Neither would I, or any of our friends.

"I'm not saying that I've forgiven him, but I think...we understand one another." I raise my brows. "Sort of like you and Soris?"

Zev snorts. "Your dog is at least a worthy opponent. Loghain should not be walking about in broad daylight."

We reach the door to my room, and I stop there and look up at him. "We're going to get into another fight at this rate, you know."

He smiles. "You are hiding things from me again."

I make myself smile back at him. "Yes, I am. You'll think differently of Loghain when this is all over, I promise." I nod at the door behind him. "Besides, don't you want to see what's inside?"

"Hmm." Zev latches on to my wrist with one hand and turns the handle on the door with the other. "Yes, my curiosity is insatiable."

A small shape catches the corner of my eye, and I turn my head to see Melly with her head poking around the corner down the hallway, clutching a dirty rag and a gleaming silver candlestick to her chest. I look at her and raise my forefinger to my lips. Her wide eyes widen even further, although I had not thought it possible. I drop my hand and smile at that, and let Zev tug me into my room.

He has a cat's grin when he turns back to me as I close the door, all of his former irritation gone. "Ah, I have heard of these," he says, mischief tickling his voice. He drops his pack on the floor and crosses his arms over his chest. "This is one of the private rooms, no? But I thought they were but legend. Creatures of myth."

"Well, I did promise you one when we reached Denerim." I grin briefly. Our frozen moment in the Brecilian Forest seems so long ago, but I flush again as I recall it, as if it happened only yesterday. Only he can make me remember the past so vividly—or even want to. "It's a little late. Sorry."

"Then it is time for the kissing lesson? Or do you wish to meet Sister Zevran?" He laughs and dips his head towards me.

I step into his arms before he can fold them around me and slip my hands up the length of his neck, caressing every vein and patch of skin along the way until I come to a rest at the line of his jaws. I catch his pupils dilating in his shadowed amber eyes before I close mine and bring his lips down to mine.

"Maybe a lesson is not necessary," he says after a bit.

"I could still use a few pointers," I murmur.

"No, no, I think you are well. A young genius of the art of kissing you are, yes?"

I laugh into his chest and step back. "I...I want to give you something."

"Oh? Something better than a kiss?"

"Not really. It's..." It's a stupid impulse, I think, but I fumble in my pocket instead of finishing anyway and hope he does not laugh when I pull the circle of silver from its depths. It glistens pathetically in the light, but I hold it out to him anyway and drop it into his open palm. He looks at it and does not laugh, but his amber eyes shine with amusement.

"And what is this?"

"It's...it's a wedding ring. Mine, actually." I shrug. Maker, this is awkward. "I made it for the girl I was supposed to marry."

"You made this?" He holds the ring up between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it back and forth and examining its every angle. It is crude work, and bad enough to make me blush as he stares at it. I am no metalsmith, and we have no forges in the alienage; as careful as I was, the best I could manage to create was a slim iron band embedded with a chip of some kind of glassy black rock, which my father contributed. The clumsy bit of jewelry would have looked horribly out of place on Nesiara's refined hand, but its coloring at least matched hers perfectly. On Zev, it is the opposite—he is golden and warm, and the ring will never work against his wheat hair and bronze complexion.

"Well, I didn't go into jewelry making for a reason." I shrug again and catch myself toeing the ground like a child, and force myself to plant my foot firmly beside the other. "Don't laugh."

"I am not laughing, _amora_. It is a fine piece of work."

"Hah! Thanks, I guess. It's definitely a piece of...something."

He laughs. "And this is for me?"

"Well, if you want it." I hesitate. "Just for now."

"Oh?"

"I'm going to make you one that actually fits you. This one is just a...a promise, I guess."

Zev smiles. It is the gentlest smile I have ever seen on him, and my heart beats faster the moment I see it. Blessed Andraste, how does this golden creature always manage to fill me with flames that eat me from the inside out? I have no words for this feeling.

I take the ring back from him and hold his right hand in my left. I try to fit it onto his index finger automatically, but it is far too small and stops at his first joint. He chuckles and wiggles his pinky at me, and I grin and grab hold of the extended digit and try again.

The fit still is not perfect—it is a little loose—but it is close enough. And it is just as I thought; silver is not Zev's best color. I will save the piece of black rock when I try again, but the band will be gold, to match the color of his eyes and his hair. And the ring that I make for him will be for him alone.

"So it is a promise, _amora_. What happens now?"

I reach up with my free hand, slipping my fingers around the back of his neck and drawing his head down towards me again in reply.

"Now you stay with me," I whisper into his lips. I say this in the tiniest of whispers. I doubt he even understood it. But his lips seem to read mine and part.

He lets my mouth leave his as my fingers drift back down towards his chest. I touch my nose to the V of exposed skin there and breathe deeply. I can feel his breath moving the strands of my hair as I unbutton his vest, undoing each one with the greatest care I have, as if each little circle of polished bone is made of eggshells and glass. I press my lips down the entire length of him until I can slip his vest off of his shoulders, and trace a line down the entire exposed length of his belly.

He inhales sharply as I bend on one knee and my mouth and hands approach his belt. I glance up at him, and he gives me an uncomfortable look.

This is not what I expected, and I raise my eyebrows questioningly. "Are you okay?"

He just laughs and rakes his hair away from his face. The sound is strangely nervous and so unlike him. "I am sorry, _amora_. This just does not feel entirely...right."

"Why?"

"You are always joking about our lovemaking, but this..." He gestures helplessly around the room. "It is different. I am sorry. I do not know the reason why, but I am reminded of...of things that were in my past, and yours as well."

I understand. My heart sinks.

Zev exhales slowly. "And I do not want you to..."

He trails off and stares down at me, his eyes glowing earnestly in the low firelight, and does not seem to notice it when my fingers resume moving at his belt. "For someone who keeps scolding me for not hanging around in the present, you sure are caught up with the past."

"Can I help it? The past makes us who we are, no?"

"It does." I slide my fingers over his hips, easing his pants off of them. "I know it does."

His hand grasps mine, closing around it and stopping its slow descent. "Perhaps we should not do anything further tonight."

"We can wait." I suppress how much I want him right now. I do not want to force him or make him feel uncomfortable. I bury my temple in his stomach and wrap my free forearm around his back and breathe the mixed scents of musk and leather in. There is a touch of something herbal there, too, tonight—just a little bit. Something like rosemary. I have smelled it once before and wonder what it is. "Just tell me what you want to do."

He gathers my head against him. "This is good, no?"

"Really? That's new," I mumble with feigned shock.

He flicks the little gold jewel on my earring. "_Gatto_," he says. I laugh and snuggle my forehead into him.

"Are you sure?" I finally ask. "It isn't...it isn't the same, you know. I just..." The words almost fall free, but I catch them just in time and curse my cowardice as I do so. "I just want you." I cannot stop myself from trying some humor, especially after those words. "And who knows when we'll see one of these legendary private rooms again? They're rare and elusive creatures, you know."

He does not reply. I can feel him wavering. He is a sensuous man, and I cannot help but love that about him, even if he has very bad timing and adores teasing. In the early days, I wondered if he could go an entire day without touching me once, somewhere, some way, and to Oblivion with the consequences.

But I suppose he has finally rubbed off on me. I need him tonight. I just have to give him a little push.

"Where do you want to go, Zev?" I ask, softening my voice. It is how I spoke to Shianni before I left Denerim with Duncan. I slip my hand out from beneath his and slide my fingertips up his torso.

"Go?" he echoes.

"When all of this is over?"

He drops his hands to his sides, bemused. "Do you not wish to stay with your family?"

"Well, sure, at least long enough to make sure they'll be okay. But after that?" I keep talking while I let both of my hands fall again, and press myself against him so that he cannot see me resume easing his pants down his hips. "It'll be just you and me. And the whole world, Zev. No one in my family could say they've ever been outside of Denerim, but I can actually say I've never been outside of Ferelden. Why stop there? We could go to Antiva. Or maybe that's too soon. You were never outside of Antiva before you came to Ferelden, right? We should go somewhere new. The Free Marches might be interesting. Do you think it lives up to its name?"

He chuckles. "_Io arrinde, amora_. I do not think I will ever stop you from rushing onward. At least wait for me to catch up to you."

My lips twitch while I work at his smallclothes. "Hah."

"Well, if you wish to delay going to Antiva until the Crows have forgotten about me, perhaps we could go through Orlais first. Leliana's constant chatter of how beautiful her Val Royeaux is has made me curious how it compares to my Antiva City. I believe we may wish to avoid their alienage, but we can still see whether Leliana's home is as lovely as she claims it to be, no?"

"Sounds like a good start. I'll wait for you at the border, slowpoke."

"Slow..." he drawls, and laughs. "Yes, at least let us cross it together, hmm?" He ruffles my hair. I lean into his touch, resting my cheek against his warm abdomen, and reach up to clasp my hands around his back. My fingers play over the curves and bumps of his spine, and he shivers and clears his throat, arching his back ever so slightly. "Well, that is nice, too," he says, trying so hard to sound as casual and carefree as he always does. But his knees tremble against my chest. His mask is slipping. I pounce on the opening like a cat on a mouse.

I burrow my head into his diaphragm and give it a firm nudge. He takes one faltering step backwards, and then another, until the bed catches his knees and he sits with an inelegant grunt. Laughter bubbles out of me while I strip his feet free of his pants and smallclothes and cast them aside, and he lifts my chin in his hand and taps the bridge of my nose with a scolding forefinger. "Not funny, _gatto_," he murmurs. "Something is very wrong with this picture. You are still wearing all of your clothes, while you have managed to make me as bare as a hatchling."

I have to laugh at that. It had been very much the other way around on our first night. I had been unsteady and gawky, exactly like the hatchling he now makes himself out to be, and barely able to respond because I could barely believe what was happening. "It looks all right from where I'm standing," I reply, although I am still on my knees. I scoot forward a few inches as I speak and nestle myself between his thighs, resting my forearms on top of them. For once, he actually seems surprised, but he recovers quickly after doing no more than blinking a few times. His lips creep upwards in a sly smile. His hands gather around the back of my head and tilt my face up towards him.

"It was the other way around not too long ago," he says, echoing my own thoughts.

"Hah. Only because _you_ said that I had to be completely naked for the massage."

"I did. I am still a little amazed that you fell for that ruse so easily."

"Well, my shoulders were sore. And..." I shrug. "You can be very convincing."

"Ah, _si_. I try." Zev flashes one of his rare grins, his teeth pale in his face like pieces of the moon before they disappear in the eclipse of his half-smile. I wish he would smile like that at me more often, but I treasure the moments he does. "Your shoulders were not sore the next day, so it did work, no?"

"I would say so." I bob up and brush my lips against the side of his weatherworn cheek.

"Have we returned to pecking like a newly hatched chick? Where has my young genius gone to?" he asks. He turns his head as he speaks and follows the line of my exposed neck, his mouth descending into its crook, where he stops to nibble at the sinews there. I drop my chin to his shoulder and let out a soft groan in reply. He gathers his arms around my shoulders. I hear him inhale and wonder what I smell like to him. Darkspawn, I suppose, as I have been killing them all day and practically bathed in the ogre's spit and blood. And probably Soris, too—and the astringent undercurrent of elfroot. I hope he thinks that lingers from Wynne's earlier ministrations. Well, at least one of us smells good.

"Were you serious about leaving Ferelden?" He has not taken his lips away, and his voice hums through me. I am shaken in more ways than one. He will want to know why I am so eager to leave. "What about your family?"

I chuckle and hope he did not hear the slight catch in my throat and trail the tip of my nose down his chest. "Well, it'll give them some time to get used to the idea of...us. Besides, wouldn't it be great if we could be together in public?"

"You wish us to be together in public, or do you mean _together_ in public?" he asks archly. "How very exciting." He playfully slithers his fingernails down my spine, and I roll my shoulders with his touch.

"You know what I mean. We won't be so strange together outside of Ferelden."

"Certainly not in Antiva. The rest I must confess a lack of knowledge about."

"So we could find out."

"We could," he agrees amicably. The next question comes fast, as though he is trying to surprise me. "What did Riordan wish to speak of tonight?"

Blessed Andraste, it is a good thing I am not looking up at him right now. I would not have been able to hide the terror in my eyes. "Some strategy, that's all. The Grey Wardens are symbols until the Blight is over. We need to stay visible. So it's a good thing we've got Loghain, because I know next to nothing about battle strategy."

"I think you know more than you say you do."

Yes, I do. Just not battle strategy. I say nothing and glide my lips over the lower regions of his stomach and feel him quiver. His hands convulse on my back. He starts to say something, just a single syllable. I will never know what he means to follow it with. I lift my hand without looking up and touch my fingers to his lips.

"Enough talking," I say, and bend forward. "Just stay with me tonight, Zev."

He is leather and velvet on my tongue. He responds quickly and starts to buck against me until I calm him, stroking the edges of his hipbones with my thumbs. He subsides, hands and hips trembling, and I move against him, slowly at first, coaxing him to savor my warmth. I feel his muscles relax and hear him moan, and begin to lead him towards the end with a gentle increase in pressure and speed.

When his palms slip up my back to cup themselves around my head, I know he is close. Strands of wheat gold glint in the corners of my eyes, tangled like a spider's web with sweat. In that moment, I am bathed in golden light. When the hair disappears, it takes its light with it; he leans backwards, whispering hoarsely, and I taste him, like the tang of metal and the smoke from a fire, like the ichor from a demon's heart acidic on my face. I drink him in. I can feel his eyes on me as I wipe my mouth with my thumb. His hand reaches out and catches my jaw, and I turn into it briefly before sliding above him on all fours, straddling his body. His face lies below me, sculpted in my shadow and his eyes gleaming from the heat of the torch burning above us.

He kisses me, cupping my face between his hands as soon as it is before him, lips seeking mine, turning and writhing and drawing me into him. I follow. We fall deeper into one another, entwined in a tangle of limbs. He eventually nudges me onto my back and places himself above me, and although he leaves me for only a moment to do this, I protest and draw his mouth back to mine. I do not want to release him. It is how we make up for the words that fell from our liar's tongues, with kisses and hot breath—words made of everything except sound that bridge the gap between what our lies had sown with the honesty of skin. But when his hand flows down and slip into my pants, encircling me the way I had held him on my tongue, I have to nestle my head in his neck to breathe, and do so with a sigh. I twine my arms around his shoulders and hold him close instead. His other hand is busy slipping its way up my shirt and drawing teasing lines across my chest.

"How do you feel tonight, _amora_?" he asks as I exhale into his chest.

I just nod mindlessly. I feel great. I feel wonderful. I can barely murmur my reply. He hears me anyway and leaves to look through his pack. I miss his heat immediately, but remove the rest of my clothes while I wait, crumpling them into an impatient ball that I cast aside somewhere on the floor.

He returns with a small jar I have noticed at the bottom of his bag before. He stops and raises his brows when he sees my nudity, and I shrug in reply and laugh, holding my bare hands out to him. He laughs, too, a beautiful golden sound that coats my ears in amber. He takes my outstretched hands in his and leans in, pushing me back down to the bed. I smell something like rosemary immediately when he twists the jar he holds open, and now I know where that mysterious scent came from. I chuckle at that. Leave it to Zev to be prepared for moments like this.

His fingers slip through me, one after the other, and I whimper as the rest of him courses through the landscape of my body. These are paths he has run before, but it feels like it takes forever for him to be satisfied. When he finally guides me to my stomach, I rise to meet him. He steadies me with one hand on my hip and the other on my back where my neck and shoulders meet. He finds me.

I do not bother to muffle my cries tonight. Nobody can hear us, anyway, not in this tomb of stone that keeps us secret within its four walls. Our voices are thrown back upon us. I grasp the headboard with both hands and feel nothing but him everywhere. Toes to head and gut to heart, back and forth again and again—he is a searing knife sliding beneath my skin that pierces my soul with every blow, leaving a blistering trail in his wake that rises to pulse hot in my ears.

He rests his lips on the back of my neck and breathes fire into me, right at my nape where my hair meets its boundary at the tip of my spine. I moan and arch into him, digging my toes into swathes of blankets and sheets. My hands begin to slip; my limbs cannot hold. He catches me before I collapse, crossing his arm over my chest and gathering me against him, and leaning back just enough to suspend my body kneeling before him. I release the headboard and clutch his forearm between my hands and cannot let it go. I know I will fall apart if I do.

His thrusts match my heartbeat, or maybe my heart has slowed to pace alongside him. My spine molds itself to his lines, throwing the side of my head into the cup of his neck so that my temple rests flat against his jaw, and a low cry crawls out of me, halting and crackling like the air around a fire. I do not even know what I have just said until he replies. The muscles in his thighs tense and press into mine, and he buries his mouth in the side of my neck and bites down so gently I can feel his lips tremble on my skin. My name hisses into my ear in a voice as broken as mine, and we burn together, and move and breathe as one.

This moment, I want more than anything to last forever. But I know it cannot.

This moment, brief as it is, has to be enough.

_It is enough._

I have to convince myself of that. It is all I want. All I need. I take this much for myself.

I am sorry, Zev. You always say that you owe your life to me, but if you do, it is only in the most literal of senses. You saved me before I destroyed myself again, and we have had so little time to truly understand one another. We should have had more. _You_ deserve more. From the entire world. And especially from me.

He finishes first, and helps me finish with a few gentle strokes of his hand. I shudder as fire billows through me and press my forehead to the sheets, panting for air. I feel like I am wrapped in a cocoon of silk and clouds and barely notice it when he leans upon me, tucking his chin into the crook of my neck as though his head is too heavy for his own neck to support it alone. I turn hazily towards him and his mouth covers mine again. He presses into me so that we lie chest to chest, and he lays the full length of his body heavy and damp along mine. His kisses are slow and lazy, but deep and wet, and taste of his musk mixed with salt. I return them as best I can while I struggle not to surrender to the feeling that I am about to disappear beneath him.

When he slumbers tangled around me and I lie awake, unable to join him in sleep, I turn my head—that is all that I am able to do—and cup his face with my only free hand, and kiss him as deep as I dare without rousing him.

Morrigan's ritual was unthinkable for far too many reasons. She is gone, and it is too late to regret the choice I made. But what she had offered me had barely been a choice at all. I could not do it, not to Ferelden—and, in my heart, especially not to Zev. A bard might say that I chose Ferelden over my life tonight, but the truth is that I chose a man over everything. I gambled on a slim possibility of a future with him. That, I cannot regret.

I will never love anyone more.

* * *

_Antivan:  
_Io arrinde = I give up_  
_

_Famous last words. This was a crazy week. Anyway, thank you so much for the reviews, _cielshadow17_ and mysterious _Guest_!_ Beak _has also been updated with its latest (and also Valentine's-appropriate) chapter. Although...maybe that one should be read before this one? Agh._

_Until next time. _

_-__K_


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

I cannot fall asleep, but I do not mind. No sleep means no dreams. And I am happy to lie with Zev tangled around me, listening to him breathe and feeling the measured tensing and relaxing of his body against mine—happy, that is, until someone begins to pound on the door just before sunrise, and forces me to carefully pick my way out of Zev's limbs and pad to the door to silence whoever it is outside. I am irritated enough that I forget my nudity until I have opened the door to face the early riser. Luckily it is only Loghain, and he carefully avoids looking any lower than my eyes. He is already fully armed, but I am not surprised.

"We've had word from Denerim," he says. "The darkspawn have attacked. A full army, it seems; nothing like what we encountered here."

"Then what are we doing in Redcliffe?" I ask sharply.

He levels a measured look at me. "It speaks of strategy, Warden. A ruse to divert us from the true goal."

My heart skips a beat. "The Archdemon's in Denerim."

He nods. I force myself to release the door handle and feel my fingers ache as I try to straighten them. "Tell Eamon's seneschal that we're leaving for Denerim immediately. Send someone to the supplies master and notify Ser Emaline. We're going to take as many of the able-bodied as we can—all of the guards and soldiers, and as many of the villagers as will volunteer and we can outfit."

"Is it wise to simply ask for volunteers?" Loghain asks. Some of his old sneer returns, and his brows bunch above his eyes. "We need as many swords as we can get. This will be a decisive battle."

"I'm giving the villagers a choice while they still have a choice to make. We might not have enough supplies for all of them, anyway."

Loghain shrugs. "On your head be it, then, Warden."

I do not know if Zev is awake, but I cannot risk him hearing. I lower my voice to reply. "I know whose neck is on the line. Don't think I've forgotten." I rest my hand on his chestplate, as high as I can reach; I can only go to the base of his shoulder. "You're the one who's led armies, not me. Find out what our supplies are like, find out how many of the villagers can hold a sword or bear a load of armor. Look the villagers in the eye and think about whether they'll be able to handle facing another darkspawn horde. You tell me what you think."

He blinks once, his face relaxing, and nods curtly.

"I'll be outside soon."

I close the door behind him and drop my forehead against the doorframe. My head makes a hollow thump against the polished wood, so cool beneath my skin. I wish Morrigan had not sent Soris away last night. I could use his goofy face and lolling tongue right now.

There is a low cough over my shoulder. I turn quickly. Zev stands behind me, already clothed and holding my own discarded garments out to me. I take them from him and put them on. He says nothing and I do not know how much he heard.

A set of hands helps me pull my shirt over my shoulders, and I emerge from darkness just as they settle at my hips, fingers tracing the outline of my ribs on their descent. "Thanks," I manage, along with a shiver and a short grin.

"So we return to Denerim to take on the Archdemon," he says without preamble. "That means this will all soon be over, yes?"

"Yes," I echo, and lift my hands to rest them between his shoulderblades. He steps forward into my arms, and I press myself against him as he encircles my shoulders with one arm and tucks a hand at the base of my neck. He rests his cheek on the top of my head, and I rest mine on his chest and breathe. We are heavy with the unmistakable smells of sweat and each other, but I doubt that anyone will notice or care. Besides, there is no time to bathe for now.

"First we kill one little Archdemon, then we scandalize your entire living family. And then off to Orlais. Very exciting. But I am looking forward to the scandal the most. I am thinking right under the _vhenedhal_ as they all leave for work. Or perhaps we could stand right outside the front gates?" My entire body begins to tremble as he speaks, and he pauses. "Do you feel well, _amora_?"

I curse my inability to control myself, but I cannot even try to laugh this away. It might not be me facing the Archdemon, but I am as scared as a lost child anyway.

"You'll stay with me until it's all over, won't you?" I mumble.

"_Si_, _amora_. Do not doubt it." He blows a teasing puff of air into my hair, ruffling it upwards. "Only do not run so quickly ahead of me, yes?"

"I'll wait for you. I'll always wait for you. I..." What began as a breathless rush of words ends in a hiccup and a cough. Still a coward. What will he say in reply, anyway? Will he say anything at all? I bite my tongue and back away and force a grin. "But the others might not, so let's pack up and head outside."

Oghren chortles openly when Zev and I arrive at the courtyard together and stares pointedly at my hair. "That's some haircut," he says. I ignore him and scrub my overgrown bangs out of my eyes with my forearm. Soris runs to me eagerly, and nearly knocks me off of my feet in his haste at inserting his enormous skull beneath my hand for a scratch. I stroke his crooked ear. "Hope you slept well, boy," I say. He barks and wags his stubby tail.

My other friends stand waiting with Oghren. They all look so tired. Our past year together weighs as heavily on them as it does on me, I think. Wynne especially shows the telltale signs of how much lyrium she drank yesterday. She will likely avoid using more until we reach Denerim, although she has told me before that the purging is never a pleasant process. Many mages find it easier to simply take more lyrium to dull their hunger and the headache that comes with it, but Wynne prefers to fight through it. Wine helps, or so she tells me.

"We can't find Morrigan anywhere," Leliana says when she sees my eyes wander away. I can tell she wants to know why, but I have no answers for her, not today. I turn my focus on the loose gathering of villagers waiting for me instead. The soldiers and guards are already at attention at the base of the stairs, and eye the ragtag newcomers with undisguised concern.

Loghain turns from where he stands at their head. "These are the best of the ones who volunteered," he says. "There were more, but they could barely stand, much less hold a sword and shield properly."

"Serah." Ser Emaline appears at my elbow, saluting briefly.

"Ser Emaline," I return. "How's your leg?"

"It's serviceable. Your elder mage fixed the worst of it. I can take care of the rest."

"And your fever?"

"The dark-haired mage took care of that. Thank you."

I almost look around for Morrigan before remembering that she is not here. "Good. Are we ready to go?"

"It'll take at least another hour to get the last of the supplies together. We have to leave enough for the ones staying behind, so the quartermaster is fighting things out with the castle cook. Once they reach an agreement, we'll be ready to go." She hesitates. "The villagers—they've been training some since that time you helped us defend the village against those demons, but I don't rightly know whether they're up for the march to Denerim. And once we get there...it will be bad, won't it?"

"It will," I say. I cannot lie about that.

"We need them, Emaline," Loghain says. "As many as possible. I'd take some of the ones we're leaving behind if it were up to me."

"But with all due respect, it isn't," Ser Emaline returns evenly. She looks back at me. "My guards and the soldiers—they're trained for things like this. But even the best-traveled villager hasn't gone further than the neighboring holdings. And this is a bad time to travel, with the snow about to melt. That'll mean rain and more mud than you can shake a stick at."

"They volunteered," Loghain growls. "They'll travel."

Ser Emaline glances at Loghain before looking back at me. "They don't know what they're getting into, serah."

"None of us do, really," I temporize. "What would you have me do?"

"Say something to them. Help them to understand."

"And have them all leave?" Loghain snorts. "They're grown men and women. They know what war is."

Ser Emaline returns both his glare and his frown. "Not them. They're brave now, while they're still safe at home. They think the worse they'll face is the night we spent fighting off those corpses, when they only survived because of the Warden and the templars, and no doubt with Andraste's blessing." She turns back to me. "You can't protect them all when we reach Denerim, Warden. They need to know that."

Ser Emaline has hazel eyes, the kind that pierce your heart with an unexpected light beneath the sun and make you feel like a child again. She is beautiful, and must have been even more so in her youth. I cannot look away; it is clear that she expects an answer.

"I'll talk to them," I say. "But I'm counting on you to protect them when Loghain and I can't."

She nods curtly, salutes, and turns away, saying nothing more. I watch her limp back to the soldiers and disappear in their ranks.

"She's a good person," I murmur.

"And a fine soldier," Loghain replies. His voice is quieter than I expect it to be. "She led her own squadron in the rebellion, and fought in the battle at River Dane. I don't doubt that she is right about the villagers, but as I said, we need them."

"Ser Emaline fought in the rebellion?"

"Indeed. I had wondered where she disappeared to afterwards. She was one of our best scouts. Always did prefer the quiet. I suppose Redcliffe was the quietest place she could find once everything was over."

"I'm glad she's with us now." I rub the broad expanse between Soris's ears on the top of his head without thinking. He pants gratefully and plants his heavy paw on my boot. "Well, Ser Emaline said we have an hour. I'll go talk to the villagers."

I meet them one by one, Soris trotting after me at my heels. I try to learn their names and their stories while I tell them what I can to prepare them for what lies ahead. The first few are still in their teens, and one of them bears enough of a resemblance to Alistair that I have to blink twice to reassure myself that it is not. Most of the rest are old enough to have young children.

Loghain has chosen well; none of the villagers leave. Many saw the darkspawn when they first spilled into the village and still want to fight. One of them tells me frankly that she does not expect to come back alive. They have loved ones to avenge. I can understand that.

The last volunteer I speak to is a young father, whose hands are scarred from palms to fingertips with lines from hauling fishing nets. Egar is one of the villagers who escaped on their boats into Lake Calenhad when the darkspawn attacked the village, and he saved many of his neighbors by taking as many with him as he could. He listens to me with his child's hand clutched in his, and neither let go of the other the entire time.

The son is named Herald, and looks like a miniature version of his father; they even have the same reddish brown hair. I catch Herald glaring up at me with surprisingly baleful eyes while I speak with his father, and raise my eyebrows questioningly. "Do you have a question, Herald?"

"You a Warden?" the boy asks skeptically. "I'm almost as tall as you are."

"Herald," his father says warningly.

Humans. I once broke Robirt's nose for calling me a runt. We were still children, and he had never forgiven me for his crooked nose, although I thought there was not much I could do to make him any uglier. There is something of his arrogance about the boy before me today. I sigh inwardly and have to remind myself that Herald is still a child before I force a smile on my face and reply. "The Grey Wardens don't have height requirements. It helps to be shorter; that way the darkspawn don't see me coming."

Herald sniffs, ignoring the piercing look his father shoots at him. "Me da says you're going to save us from the Blight."

"Not alone. Your father's helping."

"So's me aunt. And two of me cousins." The boy glowers up at me.

The woman who had said she did not plan to come home did look like Egar. I thought it was just because they came from the same village. Somehow it had not occurred to me that even humans stay so close to their relatives. They have the choice to leave, unlike the elves in the alienage. Why would they stay? "I'll need their help. They're very brave for volunteering."

Herald sniffs and chews his lower lip sulkily. Then: "Promise me my da will come back alive," he bursts out in a rush. And now I understand.

I almost glance back at where Loghain stands near the soldiers, waiting for me to return. Fathers and their children again. I could do without all of these reminders of how few differences there really are between elves and humans. They never stop to think about it. I do not know why I must.

"Herald!" Herald flinches at the sharpness in his father's voice, but frowns stubbornly before he hides his slowly crumpling face in his father's leg.

Egar turns to me. "My apologies, serah. He's been this way ever since that night we fought the corpses off."

"No harm done. That couldn't have been a good night for him."

"His mother worked in the castle." Egar hesitates. "She...was one of the corpses we found inside, after you...saved the Arl's son. Herald was in the Chantry with the other children, so he didn't see, thank the Maker."

I look down at the top of the boy's head. He will not turn his face from his father's leg, and the knuckles on his tiny hand have turned white from how tightly he squeezes at his father's. I look back at Egar. "Who does your son have if you don't come back, Egar?"

"There are some relatives staying behind. He has a cousin his age." Egar frowns, thinking. "And there's Uncle Elwin, but—"

"I hate Uncle Elwin. He's always drunk," Herald hiccups, the anger in his voice muffled by the cloth of Egar's pants.

I am careful to keep my voice gentle. "You're a brave man, Egar. We need people like you. But Herald's already lost his mother. You saw the darkspawn when they came here. There will be twenty times as many in Denerim. You know there's a good chance you won't come back from this."

"I heard you telling the others," Egar says, looking down at his toes. Herald whimpers, and I know that Herald heard, too.

I put my open hand on Egar's upper arm. "I'm not a father. All I can tell you is that I needed my father after my mother died. I wouldn't be here today if he hadn't been there for me." I smile. "It's your choice. Just know that no one will think differently of you if you decide to stay for Herald. Thank you for your courage, Egar."

I shake his hand as I have done with all of the villagers and walk back to Loghain. He looks down at me as I approach. "Well, did you manage to talk that last one out of coming?" he asks roughly.

"You mean Egar? I don't know." I turn and see Egar break away from the villager's ranks, stumbling back to the castle with his son caught up in his arms and hugged tight against his chest. Herald keeps his face buried in his father's neck, but his little shoulders heave with undisguised sobs of relief. "Well, I guess I did. Were you expecting me to?"

Loghain shrugs. "His place is with his son. I saw enough parentless children during the rebellion," he says obliquely, and nods at me in what might have been a gesture of respect. "You continue to surprise me, Warden."

"Stick with me a while longer. I'll keep you guessing until the end," I say dryly.

Loghain grunts. A ghost of a smile plays with the ends of his lips. I chuckle and leave it at that.

And soon enough, I find myself at the head of an army.

The spring thaw finally sets in when we are halfway to Denerim, just as Ser Emaline predicted. I spend the better part of a day fretting over how my father will manage the plague this year without me before remembering that he likely has much more to worry about right now. We spend the next few days churning through the mud the rain and snowmelt creates of the ground it had rested above only a week before. Everyone is immediately dirty and miserable. Our weapons and armor need constant cleaning and oiling to prevent rusting, but the mud is so prevalent that it seems nothing but a losing battle. We run into what must have been the tail end of the darkspawn army along the way, and lose some of the villagers in the ensuing battle. It is only Leliana's singing that keeps us moving onwards.

Zev and I do not always travel together, as we take our own turns scouting ahead and keeping watch on the perimeter at night—but he always finds a way to circle back to me, and I to him, although we have no privacy and satisfy ourselves with no more than a brief touch here and there. I am as restless as Soris these days and quickly discover that I am only able to sleep for a few minutes at a time at night now. Something keeps me awake, and Loghain, as well. But knowing Zev is there at least keeps me from wondering if I am going insane.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the scratched surface of a villager's shield at one point and wonder why anyone is following me to Denerim at all. It looks like a nug has been rooting its grimy paws through my hair; every strand is tangled into an erratic halo about my head that even the mud's wet hands cannot contain, and my eyes are huge and dark holes in a pale, gaunt face smeared with mud. I do not look like how a Grey Warden should, much less a leader of an army. I just look like a scrawny, dirty alienage elf.

"You have never looked nobler, oh handsome Warden," Zev murmurs suddenly into my ear. I jump and glare at him. I swear he is cleanest thing in the entire army right now. How does he manage it? He grins and winks at me, just enough to make my ears burn, and trots off, humming a foreign melody under his breath.

Wynne walks nearby, and she casts a questioning look at me. "Is something bothering you, Daen?"

"Nothing much," I say, trudging onwards. Soris butts my shoulder and I sigh and scratch his ear. He has mud up to his shoulders and haunches like he wears a full set of stockings and he smells like the genlock that died on top of him yesterday. He could care less, of course. "I just look like I haven't slept in a week, that's all."

"You do look a little tired." She peers closely at me. "Have you been sleeping?"

"Yes," I lie.

Wynne smiles faintly. "You're a terrible liar sometimes, young man. I haven't seen you lie down since we left Redcliffe. Not that Zevran hasn't tried." She brushes a warm hand over my matted hair, and I feel some strength seep back into me. Oh, Wynne. Still recovering from the lyrium, and still finding a way to heal me. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing," I repeat, and scrub my bangs out of my eyes for perhaps the fifth time in the last hour. Wynne just looks at me, and I sigh.

"Bad memories, that's all. The last time I saw myself like this, I was still working at the Pearl. I had started coughing. Never a good sign. I remember staring into the mirror, and thinking to myself that it would only be a matter of time before Sanga had her men put me out on the street. I don't know how I caught it, but I knew Sanga—she wasn't a bad person, but she's a businesswoman in the end. With the cough setting in, I knew I wouldn't be able to get a reference to anyone in her inner circle, and they owned the better brothels in Denerim. So that would mean either one of the cheaper whorehouse or the back alleys for me next—either way, I knew that I was going to die."

Wynne frowns. "Do you know what you had?"

I manage a chuckle. It sounds dry in my ears, so I fumble for my canteen of rainwater and take a sip before replying. "The templars call it whore's hack, but other than that, I don't know what it was. Sanga is usually good about screening our clients, but you don't always know they've got something until you wind up infected. Sometimes the hack climbs into your lungs and stays there for a few years until you can't really breathe long enough to eat; sometimes you go really fast, like you've got a bad case of the flu, except with boils. We lost at least one of us that way every few months—which was a lot less than most brothels, and definitely better than anywhere else." I shrug. "Whatever I had, the coughing made me start to think. Worst case, I'd die in a couple years. Or I could leave Denerim and probably get killed by bandits in a few days. But if I left Denerim, I'd at least be free of its walls for the first time in my life."

"And did you leave?"

"No."

"But clearly you survived. Just as you always do, hmm?"

I can laugh more easily this time and put my canteen away. "Had help on that one. My father came for me the next morning. He never told me how he knew where I was, just made me drink a lot of his damn tea and pulled in a few favors. That's how I survived. The cough never really went away, not until my Joining. But if my father hadn't been there then, I wouldn't be here now."

"Well, I must admit, I've seen you looking healthier. At least you aren't coughing. But you still seem so preoccupied. Is it something I can help with?"

"I—" I almost tell her. I bite the inside of my lip and stop myself just in time. "No, Wynne. Thank you. You should be resting."

"Oh, I'll catch a ride on the supply wagon soon. My feet are beginning to feel a bit weary." We walk together in silence for a few steps before she speaks again. "Daen, do you know where Morrigan went?"

"No," I say truthfully.

"That's odd," Wynne says with a deep frown. "I wouldn't have been so surprised a few months ago, but she has become somewhat easier to get along with lately, in her own way. Disappearing without even telling you where she is going seems very unlike her."

"I wish I knew, Wynne," I say. "I wish she was here." That is true, too.

Soris _whuff_s softly at my hip and drops behind me. A shadow half a head taller than me takes his place and sweeps my hair away from my ear with a gloved hand, displaying the earring there in the space of a breath before it is covered again.

The gentle brush of his fingers uncovers a memory from so long ago. Soris and I found a small stuffed mabari doll lost in the mud near the well outside the Chantry one day, stained from head to tail and probably dropped there by a noble child, judging by the quality of the bedraggled ribbon around its neck. Shianni was going to turn five and still had not said a single word. Her parents were afraid that she might be deaf. We thought the mabari would get her to talk, so I stuffed it under my shirt and we ran back to the alienage, looking over our shoulders for suspicious guards or, worse, a Chantry sister.

Soris cleaned it and stuffed some scraps for patching clothing inside to fill it out, and I asked my mother to help me stitch it up so that it looked like it was new. The ribbon was a very fine lace but a lost cause, but my mother winked and pulled a single line of beautiful golden thread from the corner of a rug she was to give to a noblewoman the next day, and handed that to me to stitch around the mabari's neck instead. I spent an entire afternoon at this task, and pricked each finger at least twice.

We presented the doll to Shianni together. She still said nothing, despite her parents' prompting, and just sat wide-eyed in her mother's lap with the floppy little animal bunched up in her skinny hands. Soris and I decided that she was scared of it, and shrugged our hurt feelings away. The mabari disappeared immediately. We figured she must have hidden it somewhere so that she would not have to look at it. Shianni finally began speaking a few months later, and Soris and I forgot about the mabari.

But I peeked into her home one day years later in our teens, intending to surprise her, and saw her perched with her knees drawn to her chest on one of the wobbly stools in her family's kitchen, stroking the clumsily stitched gold band around the mabari's worn neck. Her eyes were so gentle and her touch so careful that I ducked back outside, sure that I had seen something she did not want to share with anyone else. It was the way she brushed her fingers over the doll's faded cloth outline that told me she treasured it, even though I had never seen her carry it around.

Zev is humming a different song now, the one about the Crows who fell in love and destroyed their Houses in the fallout. He ambles along at my side with the side of his forefinger gliding down my temple. I forget about the army for once and let my eyes drift shut. I doubt anyone can see us through the mud, anyway.

I do not know how such a tiny bit of contact can make me feel so warm. Not with the warmth of Wynne's magic—no, it is more like the sun has finally broken through the rainclouds above and traces my face with its golden touch. I open my eyes again and meet his amber ones and smile, and watch him grin in reply, and turn and lope away.

I do not need to hear him say anything. It is enough that I know he will return to my side again soon enough. True to his word, in his own way. I can only hope that I will be true to mine in the coming days, too.

You might want me to slow down, Zev, but I cannot wait for this to be done.


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Denerim has been burned alive, and what remains is her pyre. The darkspawn are an unbroken line of black hurtling themselves at the city gates and streaming through the broken points in what I had grown up believing were unbreakable walls. My breath catches in my throat at the sight, and for a bare moment, I cannot think of anything except my family trapped in the alienage. But my family is not made of cowards. They have their weapons and Asher's traps and Soris's brains, and my father's steady arms and sure eyes, as long as he has his spectacles. And most importantly, they have Shianni, who will lead them out of danger's path.

We charge through the front gates, pinning the darkspawn there between us and the section of the defending army keeping them at bay. There are a handful of dwarves fighting alongside them and Dalish archers on the walls, and it makes our work easier. It is a good start in what will surely be a long battle. There are no ogres or shrieks, at least, which makes me wonder where they have all gone.

After we clear the front gates, I issue orders to erect a barricade out of the broken pieces of a nearby building while we wait for the next wave. I turn and find Riordan hovering at my elbow. "The Archdemon's here," he says softly, so that only I can hear. I nod and feel my stomach clench like a fist has just grabbed it and squeezed.

"I will try to lure it to a high point in the city. Somewhere isolated, where it cannot do much damage, and where it cannot escape so easily once wounded. If I cannot finish it there, then you and Loghain must get there soon afterwards to do the job." Riordan pauses. "Have the two of you spoken of the Archdemon?"

"Yes," I say quickly.

He nods. "I would suggest taking a small group with you. No more than four, including yourself and Loghain—it will be easier to escape unwanted attention that way. And you should put someone in charge of the forces you leave behind."

"Only four," I repeat. "Right. There will be a lot of unwanted attention to escape tonight." I glance up into his still eyes. "Are you going to take anyone with you?"

"No. I work better alone." The corners of his eyes crinkle in one of his rare smiles. "Despite what you know of my record. And in this, in particular, I believe it is best that I travel alone. There are things that Wardens must do that would be difficult to explain to others, no?"

I nod absently, and turn it into a rapid shake in the next breath. "Wait. I'll go with you."

"I...why?" Riordan is genuinely surprised, his thick eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"You went alone last time and almost died by yourself. I..." I stumble on my words. "I can't let you do this alone. I'm coming with you. I'll go talk to my friends, and then we can go."

"It is true, I would welcome your sword and your company," Riordan says. He inclines his head. "_Mersi_, Warden."

I nod and turn, my mind racing as I trot towards where my friends help with the barricade at the gates. Loghain will need to lead whichever group comes to meet us at the tower. But just as important are the ones who will stay with the ground forces at the gates. They will need to know how to lead an army if it comes to it.

They turn expectantly as I draw nearer. I search their faces and see no fear. I hope my face hides mine and clear my throat. "The Archdemon's been spotted. Riordan and I are heading out together to try and land it on top of a roof—somewhere it'll be out of reach, so that it can't hurt anyone or call for reinforcements. Sten, I'm leaving you in charge of the gates and the army here. You'll have to work with the Queen and the other armies to coordinate how you'll protect the rest of the city."

Sten nods. "Of course, _kadan_."

"Thank you." I turn to Shale. "Shale, you're with Sten."

"Its wish is my command," Shale says dryly. I hesitate. I wish I had gotten to know her better. But there is no time right now.

"Oghren, you're with Sten, too. Try to listen to him, would you?"

Oghren grunts in reply. "I'll listen as long as he's tellin' me to crush some spawn. Otherwise I ain't listenin'."

I sigh and glance over my remaining companions. "Loghain, you're going to take a small group with you to meet Riordan and I wherever we get the Archdemon to land. Who do you want with you?"

Loghain frowns. "Wynne would be ideal. There are mages from the Circle who can help with the gates here. I would also take the bard. She's a good scout and our best archer."

"Then that leaves Soris and Zev." I hesitate yet again tonight. Why am I so full of doubts? "Could you...give us a moment? I just need to talk to them in private."

They nod and resume piling broken lumber against the gates. I step away from the barricade, Soris and Zev falling into step behind me. I wait until we are out of earshot of the others before turning and meeting Zev's eyes squarely. "Zev, I want you here at the gates with Soris and Sten."

Soris barks, but Zev only blinks. "Pardon? My apologies, I think I did not hear correctly. I thought you said that I was to stay here?"

"That's what I said. Sten, Oghren, and Shale are going to be the gate's best hope of keeping the darkspawn outside the city, but they'll need someone fast and accurate watching their backs. That's you."

"Accurate?" Zev snorts. "Ah, you are free with the praise when you need to be." He shoots a narrowed gaze at me. "And here I could have sworn you said you would not run ahead of me any more."

"I said I'd wait. And I will." I had made other promises to him, too, although they seemed to have been made years upon years ago. But Sten _will_ need Zev here, I tell myself, even as another part of me laughs at me for my dishonesty.

The truth is that I do not want Zev anywhere near the Archdemon. It is selfish of me, a purely selfish wish that I cannot say out loud. Besides, his pride will never let him hear it.

I keep talking. "If not you, then I'd leave Leliana. But Loghain picked her for a reason—she's our best archer. He'll need the distance, depending on where Riordan and I land the Archdemon."

"But you do not need me to come with you, when you are even worse than I at shooting a bow," Zev notes, his lids dropping dangerously over his eyes and the corner of his mouth twisting upwards. "I assume this is because the Orlesian is secretly very good with the bow that I have never seen him carry?"

"It'll be easier with just the two of us. You aren't that much better of a shot than me, anyway."

I can barely hide my wince as the words leave my mouth. It is a terrible lie. And I am a terrible liar. The shot I managed with Fang at Redcliffe was pure luck. Zev could outshoot me with a blindfold on and even if I stood only ten paces from the target. I have never been able to fight at a distance and everyone knows it, especially Leliana, because she tried to teach me until she gave up, and Wynne, because she always scolds me for not learning how to shoot with a bow while she fixes me after a fight. And Zev, because he always watches.

Zev snorts again. "But it is true, a dragon is a very tiny target that even I cannot hit," he continues lightly. "Much smaller than an ogre."

I recognize that tone. I know it enough to know the venom it hides. "Well, what are you going to do? Throw your daggers at it and go running in to retrieve them so you can throw them again?" I try to stay calm, but a defensive note that even I can hear creeps in. Thank the Maker we speak low enough that no one else can hear us. The army probably assumes that I am just giving him orders, but it will be harder to fool my friends. I do not need them to know how afraid I am, despite all of my plans. "Sounds smart. Worked out really well with Flemeth, right until she got you with her tail."

He shrugs. "You know how I feel about hitting women, even the scaly, fire-breathing ones."

"Hah." I look down just a little, staring at his chin. "Zev...I need to know you're here. Keeping the others safe."

"As fond as I am of our friends, if it is a choice between keeping them safe and keeping you safe, I will always choose you," he says quietly. "Never doubt it."

Maker guide me. A part of me angrily asks myself if I want to watch him die in front of me, or worse, let him watch me die. Another part of me says that it does not care. It just wants him to be there.

"Wardens, we should get going," a voice says over my shoulder before I can say anything else. I nod automatically and turn to where Riordan waits with Loghain, meeting both of my fellow Wardens' gazes squarely. One of us will die today, or perhaps all of us will. And it is time for us to go.

Something brushes my arm. I glance back just in time to catch Zev's hand drifting back to his side. His eyes shine like glass and are an impenetrable armor behind which his thoughts hide. I stand caught between leaving and returning to him, searching my mind to make sense of why the gilded mask has returned.

Something catches my eye, and I look up to see a dark shape tracing circles in the sky like a vulture observing a carcass below. It looks no larger than my thumb from here. But I have seen that same shadow in my dreams for the past year, singing a dreadful song and growing in size until it stands before me and dares me to bridge the last few steps between us. Those last few steps are here. The world around me sharpens. There is only one future for me. For now.

I take his hand as though to shake it, but do not let go. "I have to go," I murmur beneath the roar of fire and the howls of darkspawn and dying people that reverberate through Denerim's burning body. I tighten my grasp. I know of no other way to convey what I really mean.

It would be selfish of me to expect a reply from him, with Denerim burning to the ground around us and what feels like half of our army swaying with the flames, waiting for my next move. And he says nothing at first, but looks down and reaches for me. His thumb moves my hair out of my eyes and sweeps it behind my ear. When it drops, it brushes across the tip of my ear and seems to miss touching the earring I wear by just a breath. It comes away bearing a smear of blood and strands of Soris's fur.

"Cruel to the end," he says.

"I know," I reply, looking down. It is true. I have always been a little cruel. Cruel and a coward, and selfish to top it all off. Especially when it comes to him.

I add my other hand to the one that already holds his, clasping it between them and drawing it towards me. He is wearing the Dalish gloves I gave him so long ago. They had been a little tight on him when he first put them on, but they fit him like a second skin now, except where a hard metal circle stretches the leather anew around the base of his pinky. I press his hand against my heart in as close of an embrace as I dare. I hope he can feel it beating through my armor, flailing at the bars of my ribcage with a fearful desperation I cannot reveal in any other way.

"Warden," Riordan calls.

I force myself to release him and turn and walk away. My hands tingle with emptiness as his warmth fades away. Wynne, Leliana, and Loghain follow, Riordan falling into step beside me. We spare each other no more than the most cursory of glances, just enough to reassure one another where we are.

"I am surprised you did not take your Antivan," Loghain mutters behind me.

I do not look at him. "He doesn't do well against dragons," I say shortly.

"I see." He is silent for a few steps. "Good hunting, Warden. Try not to do anything foolish until I get there." He says nothing more.

The forces gathered at the gates turn their faces towards us as we depart, and fists rise in the air clutching swords and shields, bows and daggers, a deep cry rising and breaking like a storm all around me. The sound carries my stride through the center of it all, propelling me towards the fire that burns unquenched at the heart of Denerim. _Grey Warden_, they howl, calling my name—not who I was, but who I am. Who I will be until I die. I had prepared myself for that the moment Duncan claimed me as one of his.

Tonight I am the Grey Warden Daen Tabris, who saw all of Ferelden in the span of a year and rallied an army against a Blight. Daen of the Denerim alienage would have never even imagined living a year that seemed more a dream than anything else. And it is he who begs Andraste to keep the man he leaves behind safe.

* * *

_Note: I am getting very, very close to the end. 1-2 chapters to go, depending on whether I decide to break things up or not. I will post the _Beak_ epilogue at the same time as the last chapter in _Clouds_; it's sort of be an epilogue for both stories. Can't believe I'm poised to actually finish something! Whew!_

_Thanks _MaussHauss_ for your very nice words, and thanks _cielshadow17 _for your kind comments as always! And thanks to the new followers/favoriters. :)_

_The new cover image is a result of me playing around in Gimp 2.8. But now it doesn't match _Beak_'s cover (the old image was a draft piece of Zevran and Daen together broken into two, so the _Beak_/_Cloud_ covers fit rather nicely side-by-side). Rats._

_Until next time. Thanks for sticking around._

_-K_


	18. Chapter 18

_Long chapter is long. Apologies._

* * *

CHAPTER 18

I do not know how Riordan knows where he is going, nor where he intends to go. He runs like a man possessed and does not respond to my questions, so I trail behind him and hope he does not lead us straight into a darkspawn ambush. There are too many darkspawn everywhere for me to sense them with much accuracy, and I am sure Riordan's senses are overwhelmed and muddled, too.

I keep up, but cannot help but gawk at the maze we pass through. I have seen nothing but nightmares in my sleep for the past year, and now I run through one. I can barely recognize it as where I grew up. Its streets are unfamiliar, dark and bright at the same time—dark with soot and spilled blood, bright with the fire whose red blaze we cannot seem to escape no matter what alley we run down next. Shadows flee between the cracks of the city's destroyed facades, screaming and crying and growling and laughing. The fist has finally fallen open, like a dropped toy or a kicked sandcastle, like a carefully decorated pastry the Archdemon snapped up with only the crumbs left behind. I do not know whether to laugh or scream.

Riordan stops abruptly. I stop short of a crash and glance up at him. "What is it?" I ask, but this, like all of my questions tonight, is met with nothing more than a slight turn of his head. I take the moment to catch my breath and will my pounding heart still. "Riordan?"

"There's a general south of here," he says. "Emissary. You grew up here—what lies to the south?"

I wipe the sweat from my brow with my forearm and exhale. South. I cannot even tell where we are right now. We had gone down a few back allies and Riordan had turned left once and right at the marketplace...

My heart stops beating on its own.

"The alienage," I say.

"The alienage?" Riordan turns and faces me fully for the first time since we left the others. "That is where your family is."

"You don't have to remind me," I snap, and bite my tongue. "Sorry."

Riordan clears his throat. "I can proceed on my own, Daen. If you wish to go to your family—"

"I'm not leaving you alone." But my eyes wander southward as I say this, and my voice wavers like a child's.

Riordan speaks like he would to a child, too, his voice gentle and low. "Daen, I have not seen my family since I left home and joined the Grey Wardens. If they were in danger so close to me right now, I would go to them."

"But the Archdemon—"

"Is still high above us. But the emissary is here." Riordan gives me a measured look. "You should go."

I shake my head. "I'm a Warden in a Blight. I should be facing the Archdemon with you. Isn't that what Wardens are supposed to do?"

"Ah, many Wardens new in a Blight think as you do. It is only natural. You have not yet been able to live with what it means to be a Grey Warden." Riordan's smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Do not mistake me, Daen, Wardens will always die fighting darkspawn. Whether it is today or tomorrow or in those few years we have left before us, our only duty once we rise from our Joining is to die killing darkspawn. But that is all. You need not do more than what you must. No Warden does. The Joining has already done enough."

"You said we needed Wardens—"

"And so we do." Riordan is a tall man, with hands to match. His palm covers my entire shoulder as he rests it there. "And your family needs a Warden now. So I would get going if I were you, Warden Tabris, and do your duty."

I stare at my feet, already balanced on the balls like a bird about to leap from its perch. I cannot honestly say that I do not want to go. But it still does not feel right.

"You shouldn't be here, Riordan," I blurt. "You should be at home, in Orlais, with your family."

"I am where I need to be. You should be, too." He drops his hand back to his side and smiles again, gray eyes almost disappearing in a nest of crinkles and fine lines. I find myself grinning back up at him before I realize it. He chuckles at that. "That is the first time I have seen you smile. I was afraid you did not like me. You are very grim for someone so young, you know? But still I hope my eldest grew up to be as brave as you, and as good to his family. Now go, and do the Wardens proud."

I turn and run before I can change my mind, or before he does, too. The last I see of him comes with one last, wild look thrown over my shoulder just before I turn behind a crumbling wall. I start to call out to him, to thank him before we part ways—but his head is already turned and his eyes still and facing upwards, focusing on something in the sky that I do not dare to face myself.

I swallow and grit my teeth, and run home.

The alienage is not on fire, thank Andraste for that, but I hear darkspawn laugh between the strained notes of familiar voices, and pick up my feet and run faster. I did not see Lothering after the darkspawn destroyed it, but there had been plenty of dismembered corpses covered in teeth marks and bellies torn wide open at Ostagar. I remember Hespith, and how her clan died. The spawn will eat my family alive.

I can barely see where I am going or think much about where I place my feet. I trip over a body as soon as I am inside the alienage's front gates. Asher's clever hands clutch at the gaping wound in his neck. His eyes are wide open and stare at me like they see straight through me and beyond. His mother lies beside him on her stomach, her back baring the ragged cut in its flesh at me like an accusing finger. I choke and stagger backwards, my heart pounding in my ears and my vision fading around the edges. Suddenly it is not just those two bodies at my feet; it is Shianni, and Soris, and my father and mother, all still and bloodless, mouths agape and bodies ripped open by darkspawn blades and teeth and claws. A sound like gravel ground underfoot crawls up my throat, and when my vision fades again, it is because of tears that I know I have no time to shed right now.

I scrape my forearm across my eyes and gulp down a deep breath. It will be worse inside, much worse, I tell myself, and you will do no one any good if you cannot fight because you are crying too hard to see. But this does not make my body stop shaking. My hands feel like they are not even a part of me anymore.

"Daen," someone whispers. My eyes dart downward. Asher's mother turns her head towards me, blinking eyes that already sit dead in her face. I drop to my knee beside her and put an unsteady hand on her shoulder.

"Don't move, Aunt Mera," I say helplessly. I do not know how she is still alive. At least the darkspawn are not looking for broodmothers right now. She will not live much longer, not unless a healer appears, and fast—Andraste, please, I start to ask, but give up immediately. "Are the darkspawn inside? Where are the others?"

"Others? Holding them off inside. Yes. Trapped. We couldn't run. Asher said he would get help, set traps. My boy...always late. Went to get him, but he was just lying here. Asleep, I thought. When I got closer..." Aunt Mera whimpers. "Bless...draste..."

Trapped. They didn't make it out in time.

The ground trembles beneath my feet. A dark voice begins to whisper in my ears, low and sweet and cold and dangerous, beckoning me towards open arms that wait for me over the bridge and inside the alienage. I start to stand.

"Daen," Aunt Mera whispers again. She tugs at my armor with no more strength than a newborn kitten. "Take this." She fumbles for my hand and puts something in it. My fingers close around it automatically and I look down at a kitchen knife, stained black from tip to butt with darkspawn blood. Sweet Maker, this is what they were fighting with. I come close to weeping again. Maybe it would have been enough against humans, who know what fear is and let it rule them in their weakest moments. Humans would have turned tail and fled at the sight of a mob of angry elves waving every sharp thing they could lay their scrawny hands on. But not darkspawn.

"Careful past the bridge, Daen," my aunt mumbles. Her head sags forward again, her hands folding together over Asher's skinny chest and her forehead coming to a rest on top, like she is about to take a nap. "My boy," she says. Her eyes drift shut. "Always late."

And then she falls still.

Asher was never late when it mattered. Not like me. I rise and turn on my heel, my hand tight around the bloody kitchen knife's handle.

I hear the Archdemon's song more clearly now. It is a raspy lullaby tracing shadowed fingers inside my skull and lingering deep in my flesh and blood. It wants me. My heart begins to beat. I am alive. _Alive_.

Three hurlocks stand at guard in the middle of the bridge. They spot me and rush forward, one after the other, the third holding back and stringing an arrow to its bow. They want me. And I want them. I pick up my feet and draw Fang in my off hand. I smell nothing but wet stone and taste nothing but metal in my mouth. I realize too late that I have bitten my lip and let go just as I meet the first hurlock and duck beneath its swinging sword. I come up inside of its armpit and jab Aunt Mera's kitchen knife upward deep inside and twist. Blood falls thick and fetid on my face and the hurlock screams and grabs the scruff of my neck with its other hand. The second hurlock swings at my head, and I let the kitchen knife go and let the first drag me out from beneath its arm so that the rusty axe misses my head by a bare inch and shaves off a few hairs along the way.

This is what the emissary left for me to deal with? I start to laugh. This will be an easy fight.

I grab the first hurlock's wrist above my neck and lean into it for support for the kick I aim at the second hurlock. My boot connects just beneath its chin as it staggers forward and its head snaps back with a crack, jaw broken and maybe the neck, too; it slumps to the ground and I slam my heel down on the first hurlock's instep and savor the snap of bones and tendons giving way beneath. An arrow flies past, but it is impossible for the hurlock archer to hit me when I am so well hidden behind my current opponent's bulk. I drop to the ground while keeping my hand pinned against the hurlock's fist and listen to its wrist break. The sharp sound travels into my skull and sings through my bones and blood along with the hurlock's strangled cry. I laugh again, and cannot stop.

A different voice joins the hurlock's dying scream and my laughter. It is high-pitched, like a hawk's, but strained, as if it vibrates along an entire length of steel. Shrieks. At least two, my senses tell me. Warm up for the emissary. I finish the writhing hurlock off, driving Fang in its throat with one stroke and pulling the kitchen knife free from its armpit on my next move. My third motion is a simple step forward that takes my arm with it, and Aunt Mera's knife tumbles end over end and buries itself in the hurlock archer's chest ten yards away. At any other time, I would have been pleased just to have made the shot; right now all I can register is pure joy at watching the twisted body crumple to the ground, its bow falling at its feet with a hollow thump. I draw Starfang and step forward again. I am two thirds of the way across the bridge. Almost home.

The shrieks come bounding out of the shadows, their gray pointed faces filled with open jaws filled to the brim with teeth like knives and shards of broken glass. Shrieks are fast, even faster than werewolves, and just as strong but far more thoughtless. I have never fought them alone. But there is no question in my mind of what I am capable of tonight. My laughter will not stop, nor will my heart, not as long as it beats in time with the song the shrieks and I dance to together.

My mouth is dry. Thirsty. I want their blood.

I swing Starfang wide and the shrieks pull short of stepping onto the bridge. They pace warily, black eyes gleaming and drool falling free from their protruding, lipless jaws. I advance and they retreat with every step I take. They hunch and glare and snarl like cornered animals, and I snarl right back at them and throw in another laugh for good measure. Let them try to take me down.

My eye catches the tripwire's gleam by chance, stretched like a spider's errant thread across the span of the bridge just before I might step off to the other side. I follow its path to a barrel hidden off to the side, cleverly tucked where rushed eyes would never spot it. Asher. Maybe this is what brought him back to the gates. The barrel has fallen askew, its mouth facing away from me instead of towards, where it was surely meant to catch intruders coming off of the bridge and heading into the alienage. Remembering this mistake must have been what cost Asher his life, and Aunt Mera's, too. But it is part of my own luck tonight, I suppose.

I lift my foot and deliberately toe the wire. It takes only the lightest touch, a testament to Asher's deft fingers. This does not prepare me for what happens next, but at least the shrieks were not expecting it, either. Heat blooms in my face and I rear back on instinct, throwing my forearm across my nose. I do not even know what is happening; the shrieks disappear in a burst of light that belches from the little barrel and engulfs the entire area before the bridge in fire. Something strikes the side of my head. The song in my blood dies in favor of a whining vibration in my skull. I gasp, suddenly clear-headed but completely unbalanced, and stagger sideways, gagging on smoke and the stench of burning darkspawn flesh. The heel of my boot catches on a raised stone and I fall over in a tangle of armor, my head spinning.

What in Andraste's blessed name was that? I grunt and roll onto my stomach, elbows grinding through dust and broken stone. It feels like the skin on my nose and cheeks are blistering. My head burns where it was hit, too; something hot and wet trickles down my temple and salt and iron leak into my nostrils and the side of my mouth. The smell of something even sharper and thicker than smoke fills my nose. Where did Asher find whatever he put into that trap? Alarith must have had a hand in it.

Something screams—no. Not something. Someone. Me. The shriek comes barreling out of nowhere and has me pinned on my back before I can blink, slamming my spine into the uneven stones on the bridge. They strike at every nerve in my body and I writhe and yelp like a rabbit in a wolf's jaws. The shriek's back is still on fire and the side of its face is burned and looks like it has partially melted away from its skull. Its mouth is melted half-shut, too, and luckily that means it cannot open it wide enough to do more than fit part of my shoulder inside. It bites down as its claws dig into my stomach. It does not have the strength right now to break through my armor, but it is trying, and it feels like it will succeed eventually. It worries at me, shaking its head back and forth, and my skull throbs with every motion.

I grab for Fang and drive it upward and below the shriek's ribs. It jerks and clenches its jaws tighter. It does not intend to let go. I grit my teeth as well, and clench both hands around Fang's hilt and keep pushing while I spit a wordless snarl into the shriek's ugly face.

The song returns. It crescendos, turning into a deafening symphony that sets my blood boiling. My laughter and the shriek's hissing are the melody the Archdemon's song weaves itself around. I see myself reflected in the shriek's remaining eye and the feral snarl that twists my visage looks like every darkspawn's face I have ever come across in my travels. It belongs there on me, the song whispers. Make it a part of me. Accept it.

A cleverly constructed leather boot flies over my nose and crashes into the side of the shriek's head, right where its flesh is black and peels like old leather from its skull. The shriek releases me and drops like a stone, jerking feebly on top of me. I try to struggle out from beneath it—not to get away, but to get into a better position to run Fang across its throat and finish it with my own two hands. But something familiar barks in my ear and grabs the scruff of the shriek's neck in its massive jaws and grinds down, scissoring through flesh and bone like it is made of butter. The shriek jerks again and goes limp.

"I know this is a position you enjoy, but with a darkspawn is taking it a little far. You could have at least invited me to join."

That smooth voice cannot soothe me this time. It stole my kill. Guttural sounds spill from my lips as I squirm out from under the shriek's corpse, Fang clenched in my fist, my breath falling fast and heavy from me as I blink shriek spittle mixed with my blood out of my eyes. Even I do not understand what I am trying to say.

The edges of my vision are dark and blurred, like I am walking through the Fade. My focus falls on Soris first; he drops the shriek from his jaws and looks up at me, backing away slightly with a confused whine. I ignore him and turn to face the owner of the boot that kicked the shriek away, although I knew his voice, and had already recognized the Dalish handiwork long before.

I look at him and wonder in a fleeting moment of clarity if I really am in the Fade right now. A part of me is relieved to see him. The other part, the part that has kept silent and hung back the moment Aunt Mera died, wakes up immediately. I do not need him to tell me that he followed me to know that that is exactly what he did. I cannot do more than glare at him and growl from deep in my throat. The fog returns. Soris whines again and ducks his head, but _he_ just blinks and drops his weight on his rear foot, fixing me with a carefully bemused look.

"Do you know you look more like a darkspawn right now than you do an elf?" he asks.

I freeze and frown. I remember where else I have seen that darkspawn snarl; it is the same grey, wild look that clawed its way across Alistair's face sometimes when we were up to our necks in spawn in the Deep Roads, although I had always thought I was only imagining it then. My back uncurls and I drag my forearm across my chin, wiping the sweat and congealing blood away. The song starts to fade until it is only a whisper, and that is easily shaken away.

"Ah, there you are, _ayana_. It will not do if your family is more terrified of you than they are of the darkspawn, yes?" Zev smiles and puts his weight evenly on his two feet again, and it is only when his hand drops back to his side that I realize he had had his fists on his dagger's hilts the minute I turned to face him.

"What were you going to do, stab me?" I snap before I can stop myself. I should be grateful and glad, but instead, I am furious. How could he follow me here? I am sure that means he intended to follow me to the Archdemon, too, if my detour with the shrieks had not drawn him out first. I scrub my bangs out of my face and take a deep breath.

He shrugs. "Perhaps, if I had to. Do not worry, it would not have been fatal."

I grunt. "What are you doing here?"

"Following your dog, making sure he stays out of trouble," he replies. "He did not wish to stay at the gates."

Soris snorts through his nose and deliberately tramples on the toes of Zev's boots as he trots towards me. He hesitates an armslength away and looks up at me, head low, ears and tail dropped, and lets out a sad whimper.

I sigh. "It's okay, Soris. I know you tried to stop him."

Soris _whuff_s happily and closes the last few inches between us. "I am hurt," Zev says, but snaps his mouth shut when I glare up at him while I rub Soris behind his crooked ears. I can feel the anger burning in my eyes and I am sure he could not have missed it.

"There's an emissary inside, with my family," I say through my teeth. "I'm taking it out. You're on your own."

I stalk away, Soris panting at my heels. No, furious does not even begin to describe how I feel right now. But I have to push that thought out of my mind. My family needs me. All Zev needs is a solid punch to his jaw.

"You know there's an emissary in there, right, boy?" I say to Soris. He trots onwards, head angled forward, and lets out a soft _whuff_ in reply. "Good. It won't be easy, but we have to try." I hesitate. "You did try to stop him, didn't you?"

He shoots me an impatient look and growls. I give him a quick scratch and chuckle. "Yeah, shouldn't have doubted you. Let's see what's waiting for us inside, huh?"

Nothing could have prepared me for what I see when I peer between the legs of a scaffold, bracing myself against Soris back with my leg across his chest. My family gathers around the _vhenedhal_, hands bristling, sometimes empty and sometimes filled with kitchen tools or clubs made from table legs and driven through with nails. A few wield bows, but most of their quivers are nearly empty; the ones who have no arrows left clutch their bows like swords before them. My father stands with the archers, his spectacles crooked on his face and one of his lenses punched out of the frame entirely, squinting through the whole lens as he nocks one of his last arrows to a beautiful bow I have never seen before. It is good to see him alive. And well, despite the way he wavers on his legs, and even though he is trapped in the middle of a ring of darkspawn tightening like a fist closing around the _vhenedhal_. Perhaps Andraste walks beside him tonight.

But even better is seeing the humans gathered around them in yet another ring made of steel and plated armor—not simply because they are human, but because of who clearly leads them as if he was born for it, just as I always knew he had been. For the moment, it does not even matter that he is completely surrounded by darkspawn. I wonder for one delighted moment why he is here, then stop. I do not need to know. He is here. That is enough.

Alistair thrusts his sword into the air, his voice slightly muffled by his helmet but still as clear as a bell to my ears. "The Maker guides our swords tonight!" he cries, and the two dozen soldiers standing abreast answer his call with a roar of their own. The darkspawn take another inch forward, and Alistair's shield flies on guard before him, and his men follow suite, until their shields have created yet another ring that locks together like fish scales.

A dark presence in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I glance up to a sunken rooftop. The hurlock stands tall against the reddened sky, its hands aglow with a blue light that casts its face in grotesque shadow. It watches the proceedings below, its mouth spread in a craggy grin. Emissary. I feel a tingle at the back of my spine and the whispered song begins anew.

I nudge Soris's paw and nod up to the roof. Soris _whuff_s softly. "See what you can do to distract the emissary. Scaffold isn't the quietest thing for a sneak attack."

Soris darts away and I wait until I hear the darkspawn start to howl in pain and confusion before starting up the scaffold. I take the steps two at a time, moving as lightly as I can. At first I think that I am only imagining the way the scaffold sways beneath my feet, but when I pause at the landing and balance my fingertips on the wall, I feel the structure tremble and groan like it is only seconds away from collapsing. I move forward more cautiously, holding my breath when I leave the side of the building and poke my head over the top of the last step.

The emissary is a hurlock, and a typical specimen of its kind. I have seen uglier—the ones we ran into in the Deep Roads had all seemed far more twisted. Instead of the salvaged and repurposed plate armor most darkspawn wear, the emissary is clad in a metal breastplate bristling with spikes of sharpened bone. Oghren told me that they were darkspawn bones, although he did not know what they were for. No one got close enough to touch an emissary; they are powerful mages, and have no need for real armor, it seems, unless someone gets close enough.

But that is the trick. I just need to get close enough. It will be hard without a mage to weaken the emissary, but with the emissary busy glaring over the edge of the rooftop at what is surely Soris wreaking havok among the darkspawn forces, I have my chance.

I draw Fang as quietly as I can and gather my legs beneath me. The scaffold creaks in response. The emissary's head starts to turn. I move.

I kick its unarmored kneecap and follow with a punch to its temple as it crumples. The emissary howls and throws a hand towards me. I dodge away, and dodge again as a ball of fire shoots from its fist towards me. The air burns as the fire goes by; I can only hope the roof is not aflame now behind me. I can pay it no heed, in any case. The emissary has regained its feet while I recovered, and advances towards me, its teeth bared and eyes glowing with barely contained rage. Its hands are twisted claws at its side, tense from shoulders to fingers and beginning to glow with a poisonous green light that I have seen Morrigan alight with many times in the past. I swallow.

I had lost my moment. Now that the emissary knows that I am here, it will be much harder to get closer.

But it will need to get even closer to me than it is now to use that spell. And the scaffold will fall beneath the emissary's weight, I realize suddenly. I just need to get it on there.

I inch backwards, back towards the scaffold, Starfang heavy on my back in its sheathe and my fist tight around Fang's hilt. A bead of sweat drips into my eye and I blink the sting away as fast as I can. The emissary steps towards me, its face cracking in two as it bares its teeth in a gleeful grin.

The arrow comes from nowhere and lands in the hurlock's throat with a wet thump. I glance bewildered over my shoulder in time to see Zev draw another arrow, his feet steady on the scaffold even though it shudders and threatens to fall away from the building. "What are you doing?" I yell futilely—it is too late to stop him. I never could, anyway.

"Down," he yells back, and narrows his eyes along the arrow's shaft and lets it fly in the next breath. I throw myself to my stomach as the arrow whizzes over my head, missing me by mere inches. The emissary staggers away from me, dropping its hands from where my throat had been only moments before to clutch at the second arrow in its throat. A telltale light begins to gather in its fists. I sheathe Fang and scramble to my feet and throw myself at it, protecting my face from the bone spikes by throwing my forearm across my nose, and realize too late how close it stood to the edge of the roof. I watch the ground and frightened faces scattered everywhere below rise over its shoulder, and when it starts to fall, I go with it.

When I was much younger, one of my older cousins fell off of the same roof after climbing there on a dare and died. I doubt anyone other than a Warden would have survived the fall now—but I have nearly forgotten that the emissary is just as strong, if not stronger, and we rise to our feet together. A broken bone spike is caught in my armor in the joint at my right elbow. It is sheer luck that nothing else punctured my armor, although broken spikes lie everywhere beneath my feet. I pull the spike out with my teeth and spit it to the side as fast as I can so that the bitter taste of spawn blood does not linger on my tongue.

The emissary turns towards me, its growl wet with the blood flowing from its neck. I grit my teeth and catch my breath and pull Starfang. My left ear throbs and buzzes like there is a fistful of gnats caught inside, and I lift my hand long enough to make sure Zev's earring is still there before drawing Fang again.

A handful of darkspawn start towards me, weapons raised, until the emissary snarls at them. They back away quickly, and the emissary turns back to face me again, breathing harshly through the arrows still protruding from its neck. This is a duel, I realize suddenly. The message is clear.

Honor from a darkspawn? The fall must have shaken me more than I realize. But it cannot silence the darkspawn blood that made me a Warden. I am beginning to feel like I am walking through the Fade again, and the roil of dark whispers starts its clamor in my head. The emissary and I pace around one other, drawing our own circle within the greater circle made by our audience. The ring of bodies pass behind the emissary's hunched shoulders in a blur that is both pale with fear and dark with blood.

A tense voice whispers my name somewhere behind me. I shake my head and take a step back just as the emissary raises its hands above its head. Light gathers again inside of its circled palms. I can feel my family standing around me, watching, and I react without thinking.

My feet push off of the ground beneath me and throw me forward. I rush my shoulder into the emissary's and knock both of us sprawling back to the ground. My dragonskin armor is thick enough to protect me from the bone spikes, but I still feel their uncomfortable prickle on my skin. Fang's blade slips easily into the emissary's open eye before it does more than call the first few sparks of its next spell into its fist. The twisted thing grunts and goes limp, but its body grows hot and begins to swell like a balloon beneath me. "Andraste's tits!" I blurt and struggle to my feet, sheathing Fang and Starfang as I turn. Morrigan has used that same spell on many a darkspawn, and I know well what the consequences will be. "Everyone get back! Get behind something!"

The darkspawn have already started to flee, and now elves and humans alike turn and run for cover on their heels. I breathe a quick sigh of relief when I spot my cousins, and Soris with his teeth tangled in my father's sleeve, half-dragging him and leading all three of them to safety behind the _vhenedhal_. But then I turn and find Alistair right behind me, charging straight for me. I did not expect him to be there, although he always was in the past. My heart pounds with my footsteps as I run for him. "Get back, you idiot!" I yell. My brother, the future king of Ferelden—and no bigger fool there ever was, except perhaps his older brother.

He grunts and grabs me by the scruff of my collar as soon as I am within his reach. His other fist reaches behind me and grabs hold of my belt. My feet leave the ground before I can do more than make an awkward gulping sound, and then I am flying, and then tumbling across the ground as wildly as a boulder downhill. I manage to stop myself after a few dizzying revolutions and start to clamber upright, lifting my head to see Alistair running after me as quickly as he can.

The explosion comes in the next moment, followed quickly by the fetid smell of darkspawn innards and sulfur. I am thrown once again as heat rolls across my face. My back slams into a broken wooden wall. My vision goes black. The world is gone.

I come to wondering what I am doing lying prone with my nose buried in packed mud before I remember what just happened. The cries of the world return to me like someone has stuffed cotton into my ears. When the ringing begins, I know that I am still alive. But Alistair and my family—did they escape in time?

And my idiot Antivan balancing on a crumbling scaffold. Blessed Andraste. Idiots all around. And I the biggest of them all.

I drag my hands out from beneath me and throw the pieces of charred wood lying across my face away. This is as far as I can get; my hips are pinned beneath a heavier plank with one end stuck deep into the dirt, and the ground is not nearly wet enough for me to wedge myself deeper and slip free. I lie on my back in the ooze blinking stupidly up into clouds of smoke and dark clots that waft through the air on an unseen breeze, too light to be remnants of the emissary and too black to be snow. One particle goes up my nose and I cough and smell smoke and realize that the flakes are Denerim herself, falling apart as I lie useless beneath her bones.

Someone young and scared screams in the distance. And something soft and shadowed begins to sing anew, each note dripping like poisoned honey through the crevasses in my brain. It knows that I am weak right now. My spine crawls and my vision begins to fade around the edges again. I blink as fast as I can, and cough and whimper. Is that me? Maker's balls, I sound like a sick _halla_. My throat is so dry. I do not know how much longer I can resist that voice.

Something moves in the corner of my eye. I turn my head towards it. The song dies away again as my relief pushes it to the side. Alistair pulls himself to his feet and waves helping hands away. He pulls his helmet from his head and taps the side of his head a few times. "Well, wasn't any worse than a dead abomination," he says cheerfully before whipping around and shooting a sharp look at one of the soldiers trying to help him to stand. "Did you just say something about my mother?"

"No, serah," the soldier stammers.

"Good. Because I was going to say...wait until you meet my sister." Alistair clears his throat. His eyes fall on me and his grin goes still. He wants to say something. So do I.

My father and my cousin Soris block Alistair from view. They begin to work on moving the piles of wood that have my legs pinned beneath them. I sit up, only to be knocked down again by a pair of plate-sized paws planted on my chest while their owner helpfully licks my face free of mud and blood and covers it in a deadly mix of drool and darkspawn blood instead. I gag and shove my dog away, but he does not stop scouring the skin off of my face. Alistair joins my family and moves the last few pieces they had been struggling with, and I slide backwards and climb to my feet, using my cousin for support.

"Daen, you were incredible!" Dad cries, his hand tight on my upper arm. My cousin, meanwhile, flings his arms around my neck and I choke and stagger and nearly fall down again. "Where did you learn to fight like that? I knew you were training with Adaia, but I never knew you were that good!"

"Not really," I mumble. "Bet Mom could still kick me halfway to Fort Drakon. Word of advice, Dad, if you see any more darkspawn outfitted like the one that just exploded, leave it for the mages to handle."

"Hah! Noted."

"The darkspawn..."

"They're gone. They all ran away pretty quick once the one you killed exploded."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "Good. Where's—"

"Daen!" Shianni cries urgently. I escape my cousin's arms immediately and dodge my mabari's attempt at tackling me again, searching for Shianni.

I see Zev first and am somehow by his side before I realize that I have moved. He lies nested among the broken remains of the scaffolding, as though it had tried to catch him as he fell. Shianni kneels beside him, but she registers as only a flash of red hair in the corner of my eye. Zev's right leg and arm are both broken, and badly. Wynne could fix them if she was here, but she is not, and there is nothing else that I can do for the way his ankle and arm tangle back on themselves at such wrong angles. He breathes shallowly but evenly, like he measures time with every breath. I touch my hand to his clammy cheek and relax by just a hair when he leans into my hand and gives me a strained smile in reply. Alive. He survived.

"Jumped off?" I ask. My voice is calmer than I thought it would be.

"_Si_," he mumbles. "It...seemed a good idea at the time."

"Definitely one of your better ones," I agree.

Alistair comes clanking towards us, his armor nearly as loud as the emissary's explosion in my ears. "Er, are we all looking at the same thing?" he asks over our heads. "Hate to say it, but Zevran won't be of much use until he gets all that healed. I sent two of my best men to see if they can peel a mage away to come here—your family needs the healing, too—but they'll be a while cutting through the spawn along the way." He digs around in his beltpouch and pulls a healing potion from its mouth. I know it will not be enough to heal Zev completely, but it will at least dull his pain. I take it from Alistair with a murmured thanks.

Alistair just shrugs and keeps speaking. "Where's Wynne and Morrigan?" he asks as he hands the vial over.

I pull the stopper out of the vial with my teeth and lift Zev's head with one hand and tilt the potion towards his lips with the other. "Wynne's with Loghain and Leliana," I say absently. "Take it easy, Zev."

"I am half broken and defenseless as a kitten," Zev grumbles around the mouth of the little bottle and between quick swallows of the potion. "I do not think I can do anything other than be easy for now." I manage a hollow laugh, no more than two short ones that sound more like a cough.

"And Morrigan?" Alistair presses.

I am too busy making sure every drop of the healing potion makes it down Zev's throat to think much about my reply. "Morrigan's...she left."

"So she couldn't stand it either, could she?" Alistair lets out a curt laugh. "She's got more sense than I gave her credit for."

Something bursts within me, along with the empty glass vial that I throw to the side, where it shatters with a sound like the tiniest of bells against a wall. "Climb up Fort Drakon and walk straight off, Alistair," I snarl. Three sets of eyes shoot me surprised looks, and I scrub my bangs out of my eyes and turn my scowl down to my knees. This forces me to look at Zev's leg, but I can at least try to look past it. I do not want any of them to see how close I am to falling apart right now. "Sorry. I think the alienage is secure for now. I need to keep going. Can't keep Riordan and Loghain waiting."

"Daen, wait." Alistair moves to block me before I stand and I do not bother hiding my glare this time. He does not even flinch. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing that you need to know right now," I say forcefully.

"I'm a Grey Warden, too," Alistair persists. "If this has something to do with us, I have a right to know. I'm not king until I've been crowned."

"And that's why you aren't a Warden anymore." My bangs have fallen back into my eyes, but I refuse to look away, even to move my hair out of my face. "You have your own duties now. They aren't the same as ours."

Alistair snorts. "Then what is it, Daen? You always have all of the answers, don't you? You tell me what is so much more important than ending a bloody Blight!"

I grab his wrist. "What could be more important? You're what we all have to look forward to when the darkness ends, Alistair. Our king."

He stares down at me, his face dark and eyes pinched in a scowl. And then a smile climbs through. On Alistair, it is like seeing the sun after a sleepless night. "Are you saying I'm the light at the end of the tunnel?"

"Hah!" I relax my grip. "Yeah. That's exactly it."

"Aw, that's sweet. Not one of your most poetic moments, but I'll take it." Alistair looks down at my hand. "I take it this means you're planning on taking down the Archdemon yourself?" I can feel the color draining from my face, but I doubt anyone can tell in this light. Alistair keeps talking; he has not noticed a single thing. And Maker willing, it will stay that way. "I guess I can't say no to that. You always see things through to the end."

"Yeah. You know me. I end things. Especially darkspawn, on pointy swords." My laugh sounds stiff and hollow.

Alistair frowns and probably would have said something else if he was not interrupted by a shrill scream. I track pointed fingers to a winged body sweeping through the sky. My heart rises into my mouth. I can see what is happening even from here, as if I stand on the top of Fort Drakon itself. The Archdemon's powerful wingbeats falter and its body shudders and begins to fall. Falling away from it is another body, so much smaller in comparison, limbs flailing and clutching at the void. The dragon lands on Fort Drakon, but I see this only out of the corner of my eyes. I cannot look away from that other body, and watch it disappear among plumes of smoke that offer no succor, surely to join the burning rooftops below. Although I cannot hear it land, I feel its impact with a single heavy heartbeat in my chest.

"Riordan," I mutter. "I've got to go."

"Where is Loghain? Surely he is closer," Zev says, his voice husky. "Leave it to him. He is a general. You are not."

I swallow. He is baiting me, I know, just as he always loves to do. I cannot believe that he would do this now, but I also cannot be surprised. "I'm a Warden. I should...I have to go." I glance down at him. "At least I know you're staying put this time."

"Ah, this is just for show. I will be by your side again before you know it," he says.

"Better not." I smile stiffly. "Hope you learned your lesson. See the bad things that happen when you don't do what I say?"

"You should not have made me stay behind," Zev counters with a one-shouldered shrug, followed by a quick grimace. "You should know by now, it is like telling me I cannot seduce half a whorehouse. No sooner said than done. Including the clientele."

"So this is my fault now," I say angrily, and bite my tongue and shake my head. I cannot give in to his playful words now. "I'm not going to fight with you now. I have to go. I have a Blight to end, in case you've already forgotten." I start to put his head down and rise.

"You are running from me again." His voice is so cold, all pretense at levity gone so quickly that every muscle in my body stiffens and stops me from moving any further.

"I am not running away!" I am a hair away from yelling at him. I have to calm down. But my voice keeps trembling in my throat even though I lower it, and its echo fills my head and blurs the sound around me worse than the emissary's explosion did. "Not from you. I couldn't, Zev—" My voice breaks on his name, and I tuck my chin into my chest and squeeze my eyes shut. "I just didn't want something like this to happen to you," I whisper. "Zev, why couldn't you have just stayed put when I asked you to?"

"Because bad things happen when I am not with you," he mumbles.

My eyes fly open. He stares up at me beneath half-lidded eyes, pupils so dilated I am not sure he can even see me and the ghost of a frozen smile etched on his lips, and whatever I was about to say before he spoke dies on my tongue. I cannot tell what he is thinking. I never could whenever he hid behind that gilded mask of half smiles and lazy lids. What holds it there this time?

I sit there with my mind empty until I see something flicker deep within his eyes, something raw and vulnerable that I have never seen in him before. It is extinguished so quickly that I am sure it is only the pain that let that part of him show. But now I finally understand what the mask means—what it has always meant when he slips its impassive visage over his.

Afraid. He is afraid. And I am a fool. I have been so caught up in how scared I am and so sure of his fearlessness that I forgot he is capable of fear. He has admitted it himself before, if not in so many words. I should have known. I should have remembered.

I am caught, weighing my desire to hold him one last time before we part against what feels like hundreds of eyes looking towards me. There have been so many times in the past year when I have wished with all of my heart for a single moment to last forever. And I have never wished more to be able to go back to the moments that passed before the one I stand in now, or prayed so fervently for the future not to come.

This is a part of us that we have yet to speak of. And we cannot, not right now. But that does not mean I have nothing to say at all.

I grab the sides of his head and raise his face while I lower myself to meet it halfway. He hisses with pain, but I do not care. I utter my next few words straight into his lips so that he cannot escape or pretend that he did not hear. "I love you," I mutter a hair's breadth away from him. His lips tense beneath mine, but his good arm slips around my back and locks me tight against him. "I'm sorry, Zevran. I love you. But you can't do anything right now. And I have to go."

I can practically hear every single one of my aunts and uncles and quite a few cousins shrivel into a collective pile of virtuous dismay all around us. Shianni and Soris, meanwhile, squeak like a pair of mice, and my father starts to cough like a moth just flew into his throat. A chuckle rumbles up Zev's throat, although its tail is cut short by a sharp inhalation that means the potion has not dulled all of his pain. I stroke my thumb along the edge of his jaw and wish I could take what remains from him.

"Ah, the scandal," Zev mumbles back. "A little sooner than I expected, _gatto_, but I am not complaining."

"Didn't think you would."

His hand presses down on my back. "What are you not telling Alistair?"

"Same thing I'm not telling you." I press my forehead to his and will the heat there into me. I doubt it does anything, but I finally begin to feel his arm relax at the point where it presses between my shoulderblades. "I see you at the end of all of this, Zev. Isn't that enough?"

"You wish it to be enough?" He snorts grumpily. "Then do not go running where I cannot follow in your haste to see me at the end."

"Waiting for you to catch up, you mean," I say. I lower my voice, channeling the gentle purr he has used on me so many times in the past. "It'll all be just a memory soon, just like always. A broken arm and leg for Wynne to heal. A nightmare that we had together. We'll laugh about it later. Just wait and see."

I draw back an inch and see that his eyes are beginning to glaze over. He is slipping away from me, borne into unconsciousness with the pain and the potion leading the way. So I fall back into him and hide our faces behind my circled arms and overgrown hair and kiss him quickly before I lose him, just once, just enough for him to feel it before his eyes close. And just enough for me to reassure myself of the fire within him, because even if I cannot take the cause of it away, it at least means that he is still alive.

"See you when we wake up," I say.

"Okay. Yes. _Si_." He closes his eyes. "_Si, amora_. _Vida a fino._"

I watch him fade away beneath me. The arm stretched taut on my back relaxes. I catch it before it drops to the ground and lay it gently across his stomach. I could stand now, but I cradle his head in my hands instead, and watch him breathe in his exhausted sleep. He was never this dirty and disheveled, my Antivan, not from the first moment we met. Zev is bright and clean in every memory I have of him, even while he lay trussed at my feet after Alistair knocked him unconscious, and even when the rest of us looked like something my dog dug up as we trekked through the Circle Tower and the Deep Roads. But the pain shows itself now in the tension around his mouth and closed eyes, and his face is smeared with soot and dirt and dark streaks of darkspawn blood, his hair dull with ash and matted as badly as mine when I wake up in the morning and nothing like the shiny, silky strands of wheat he always takes such pains to care for every day.

But he breathes. He is alive. That is enough for me. Even at his worst, he has never seemed more golden and blessed than in this moment now.

My mabari barks and rubs his cheek against my arm for my attention. I turn my head and bump my forehead against his. "Stay with him, Soris," I say. He _whuff_s softly in reply as he leans into me, capped with a whine that sounds like both a reassurance and a question in my ears. He has always understood me better than I understood him. Maybe, sometimes, even better than I understood myself. "Don't worry about me. I'm counting on you to keep him safe until I get back."

"We'll watch him until the mages get here, too," Dad says, kneeling beside Shianni. He does not look at Zev, although Shianni cannot seem to tear her eyes away. I am sure that means that my father has not completely accepted him yet, but it is enough for now that he offers to treat Zev like family while I am gone. Maybe he will be more accepting after he sees us come back together, a year or two from now. I cut that train of thought short. Getting ahead of myself. But it is something to look forward to, I suppose.

"Okay," I say absently. I watch Zev pull a few more breaths before I lower his head back to the ground as gently as I can and stand, pushing my bangs out of my eyes. My hair smells like darkspawn blood and fire. Maybe I will ask Eamon if I can borrow Lady Isolde's bathing room again when this is over. And maybe I will sneak Zev in. I swallow a chuckle that would have just sounded strange and inappropriate to anyone who overheard. Getting ahead of myself again. But that is surely something to look forward to—one last scandal before we disappear into Orlais.

Shianni and Dad both stood as I did, though, and they each give me an odd look accompanied with a raised brow. I realize too late that I was not as successful at hiding the grin that came with the laugh and cough into my raised fist as I quickly school my face into something more somber.

"Alistair will keep you all safe, but I'll send any spare troops I run into here to help," I tell them. "You might have to run for the ocean if it comes down to it, but the darkspawn army should scatter when the Archdemon dies, just like how the ones that were here ran off after the emissary exploded."

Dad nods. "Go on, then, son. Don't worry about us. We'll be fine."

"So will your Antivan," Shianni interjects. "He's one of us, now." She grins wryly. "Bit hard for anyone to deny it at this point."

I chuckle. "Not sure if everyone will agree with you, but thanks."

Dad reaches out to grasp my shoulders, while Shianni's hand snakes out and slips into the palm of my hand. "Everyone agrees that we're all proud of you," Dad says. "They'll get over the Antivan faster than you think, now that they can cut straight to gossiping about him instead of focusing on the rumors. Trust me, I know how we work."

I drop my eyes. "Dad, Asher and Aunt Mera..." I cannot finish. Who else have we lost tonight, I wonder, and how much more can my family take before none of us remain?

His hands squeeze my arms with a comforting weight. "No one blames you. We'll get through this, and no one will be forgotten when it's over. Don't waste another moment fretting about us, Daen."

The pressure from Shianni's hand increases briefly as well. "Bring back an Archdemon head for me, will you? I bet I could make some really good soup out of that."

"That's disgusting, Shianni." But I squeeze her hand back anyway.

"Trust in the Maker," Dad says. A smile tugs at his mouth. "But please, stay away from the Veil. May Andraste guide your hand."

"She guides all of us tonight," Shianni adds, and lets go of my hand. "I know she does. Go, Daen. Show the world what we're made of."

I nod and turn and leave them, just as I left Riordan earlier tonight. Things would have been different if I had not turned and gone home then, although I cannot say how. Maybe at least Riordan would not have died alone. Maybe the Archdemon would be dead by now. But Loghain was right about certainties. It is too late, always too late, to regret the things that have already happened. The past cannot be changed. All that I have left is a faint wish for the future.

I rub my eyes and swallow my fear, and only then do I notice that I am being shadowed by a little street dog no taller than my knee. It is mangy, and its fur is brindly black and its body so scrawny that it is a wonder it has not starved to death already. I frown and try to will it away by staring at it like I would Soris, but I suppose I cannot expect a mabari's intelligence from a common street dog. It simply slips behind a pile of debris, watching me with its yellow eyes glowing like a cat's in the firelight. I sigh and give up. I have no food to distract it with, and I do not care if I have some company for the time being, so long as it does not give me away.

I continue towards Fort Drakon, which stands an unbroken line pinning smoke and ashes to the sky. I decide to stick to the shadows for once, and resist the temptation to stick Fang through unguarded darkspawn backs as I go. Now is not the time to risk attracting attention to myself. In my head, I divide my future into small goals, mostly to distract myself from what waits for me at the top of Fort Drakon, and repeat the steps in my head until it sounds more like a prayer than anything I have uttered in my life: First, make it past the darkspawn. Second, make it to Fort Drakon. Third, make it to the top of the roof. Fourth...

Fourth, do not die, I think, stepping over a child's crumpled body and careful not to slip in the puddle of blood gathered about its head. Do not die.

I understand now why Hespith sang as she wandered the madness of the Dead Trenches, where Branka had abandoned her to the darkspawn. As long as she spoke those words, she did not have to think of where she was or what she was doing. It was a prayer for her, too. And my own prayer begins anew.

Bann Teagan leads the troops gathered about the base of Fort Drakon. He jumps back when I appear by his side, nearly bashing my face in with his shield. I duck only just in time.

"Warden! Thought you were a genlock," he blurts. I cock a brow. "My apologies. Loghain, Wynne, and the red-haired bard entered Fort Drakon not too long ago. My brother led some of the best soldiers up as well. Hard to tell how much time has passed, but I would guess it's been perhaps half an hour. We're trying to keep the darkspawn out of the tower, but they're hitting us hard. I swear they're trying to get to the Archdemon's at the top."

"They probably are," I say. I am sure this is where all of the ogres and shrieks have gone. "I wish I could help you here, but I'll be needed where the Archdemon is."

"Do not concern yourself with us, Warden. You have bigger things to take care of now. We'll take care of the darkspawn on the ground; you can count on it."

"I am." I clasp his forearm briefly, and he returns my grip on mine. Bann Teagan has always been much easier for me to get along with than his older brother. I wish we had had a moment to drink together. "Fight well, Bann Teagan. And don't die."

"You as well, Warden," he says.

I hesitate on the threshold of a tomb littered with stiffened corpses. Darkspawn blood mingles with that of elves and dwarves and men and mabari here, and weapons lie broken and stained in fists that have fallen open in death. At least when I was last here, the air had moved with the screams of fallen guards calling for reinforcements. And Alistair and Morrigan had waited for me at the entrance where I stand now, back to back for once and fighting together to reach me while I staggered on towards them. Somehow I do not feel as tired now as I did then. But there is no one with me or waiting for me here today, except for what lies above.

The song begins again in my head, coaxing me to climb upwards. It knows that I am here. I knuckle my eyes and take a deep breath. "Fourth, do not die," I murmur.

The small dog yaps at my heels. I had forgotten it was there. "Are you coming, too?" I ask, looking down. It barks once in reply, meeting my eyes squarely, and running its tongue once about its lips like it can taste what is to come. "Hah! I could use the company."

I take my first step into Fort Drakon, my little shadow at my heels.

* * *

_Antivan  
_Vida a fino = See you at the end

_I am so sorry about the delay. With work the way it is, the amount of time I can spend thinking about _Clouds _diminishes. The good news is that there is definitely only one more chapter to go after this one. The bad news is that with how painful it was to get this chapter out, I just can't say for sure whether the next chapter will come out next Sunday or not. I think following the story's the best way to know when the update happens. Sorry about that. I will try very hard to get the last chapter out next Sunday, but I am reworking some things in both _Clouds_ and _Beak_ so it unfortunately is not a matter of just weaving things together anymore._

_Thanks so much for your patience and sticking with me. Until next time. _Vida a fino_. ;)_

_-K_


	19. Chapter 19 (part 1)

_It was a long time coming, but I hope it's worth the wait. In an attempt to not drive anyone insane, I have split the last chapter into 2 parts as it is otherwise a good 13,000+ words standing alone. _

_The last chapter in _Clouds _spoils the epilogue in _Beak_, and vice versa. _

_Thanks in advance for sticking with me!_

* * *

CHAPTER 19  
part 1

My breath hisses ragged between my cracked lips. I stand before a closed door, my hand resting upon its heavy brass handle. Its carved frame rises far above my head. It has to be even taller than Sten, I think. I have never felt so small in my life.

I did not know that air could sit so silent and yet scream so loud at the same time until now. The air is as thick as snow around me, but I hear a voice pierce its mass, a voice that roars like incessant thunder behind the door's iron span, rage overflowing in its every note. It is the first time I have heard it outside of my dreams.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles like every nerve is on fire. I run my hand over it in a desperate attempt to calm myself, but it does not help. I feel unbalanced on the inside, in the pit of my stomach, like I have just eaten something rotten after days of going without food.

I shoulder Starfang to distract myself with its weight and tighten my grip on the doorhandle, trying to tell myself that I am ready. There is a mabari carved into its plate, and I run my thumb briefly over its alert head and muscled shoulders. This reminds me of the little dog sitting on its haunches by my ankle. I glance down at it and it meets my eyes calmly. It is as still as a cat in a puddle of sun. Tough little thing. It waded through corpses piled higher than its head and climbed every single stair I did to get here, and it is barely out of breath. But me, on the other hand—I do not think I am out of shape, but I cannot seem to catch my breath. I have not been able to since the moment I stepped inside of Fort Drakon.

"Maybe it'll be over by the time I open the door," I say out loud, filling the silence with my voice so that my heart does not succumb to the noise. "What do you think, little one?"

The dog does not move and simply looks at me, its head cocked to the side. It is no mabari, and it passes no judgment in its yellow eyes, which I surely would have gotten from Soris by now. He has a way of looking up at me beneath his brow ridges that makes me feel like I have just said something stupid sometimes, although he uses that look so infrequently that seeing it is an almost certain guarantee that I actually did just say something stupid.

"You're right," I say, pretending that I had gotten that look anyway. I have never needed him to know when I am being stupid, after all. "I'm a Warden, after all, aren't I?"

The dog stands on all four paws at that, pointing its nose at the door. I nod and make myself pull a single steady breath. "Let's see what's waiting for us outside. Stay close."

I open the door to broad daylight and squeeze my eyes shut immediately. An explosion follows fast on the tail of the burst of light, and the heat and the way stars explode before me behind my closed lids can only mean that some mage had just set loose a lightning spell. I blink away the stars and it is dark and night again, and the air rings with raw screams dominated by a single dark voice that twists an uneasy fist in my stomach.

The dragon stretches as tall as the sky for a scant moment before it falls back on all fours and screams at the group of armed warriors around its feet. It holds one of its wings tight against its side while the other drags on the ground, and its tail lashes like a whip while humans and dwarves dodge its sinuous length. Its head snakes forward and grabs hold of a dwarf as I watch; the dwarf disappears behind glittering teeth with barely a cry to mark his passage, and the dragon seems to grin before twisting its neck and tossing the dwarf over the edge of Fort Drakon.

And yet I am not as frightened as I thought I would be. I know its ink-black body and rough twisted scales as well as my own face by now. Like greeting an old friend.

The little dog lets out a short bark and darts forward. "Come back!" I cry, but its tiny form disappears behind a forest of legs clad in leather and steel plate, and I swallow my sudden loneliness.

"Warden! Here!"

I glance upwards. Loghain stands beside a row of Dalish archers on the top of one of the raised platforms at the four corners of the roof, waving his shield above his head to catch my attention. Even I have to admit that I am relieved to see him alive. He seems relieved as well when I join him on the platform, although with Loghain, it is, as always, hard to tell.

Wynne is there as well, and Leliana turns at my arrival from where she stands among the Dalish archers. Both look paler than usual, but they smile at me as they gather beside me. I feel safe and at home immediately, sheltered among the taller bodies of what I know now are the closest friends I have ever had. I send a quick prayer to Andraste to keep watch over the others on the ground below.

"We're tiring the Archdemon out before I take the final blow," Loghain says without preamble. "It seemed prudent."

I just nod. I can't question his logic. Until I arrived, he was the only Warden, after all. "I'm going to help them."

"No. You're to stay here," Loghain says sharply, and pauses. "I saw Riordan fall. He was not a bad man, for an Orlesian."

"He'd probably be honored to hear you say that," I say with a wry grin, although my heart tightens painfully. "He did manage to land the Archdemon for us."

"And his sacrifice won't be in vain. I promise you that. But his death means that there are only two of us left. I shouldn't have to tell you why you need to stay here, Warden." Loghain's focus returns to the fight below. I decide to leave him be. He is right. And a man in his final moments, after all.

"Daen, what does Loghain mean when he keeps saying only he can kill the Archdemon?" Wynne interjects. She still manages to muster some suspicion in her voice, despite how tired she looks. Wynne will never change, I think, and have to smile at that.

I shrug. "He's a Grey Warden. Killing the Archdemon is what he's here for."

"What about you?"

"Me, too."

She glares at me. I smile apologetically. "I'm sorry, Wynne. It's Warden business."

Now it is Wynne's turn to turn away, her brow furrowed an inch deep. Leliana stays by my side, but her eyes are distant, watching the fight and yet not at the same time. Her face is smeared with blood and dirt beneath the brim of her helmet, and her eyes and lips are drawn and grim, and she flinches every time the demon screams. She has not been this quiet since the Deep Roads, when the lack of sunlight and the constant presence of stone and sharp odors of darkspawn refuse had bled all gaiety from her blue eyes by the third week. Seeing her this way reminds me of Zev, lying silent among my family in the alienage. I finally look away. It feels wrong, seeing her like this.

I have no desire to watch the fight, as there is nothing that I can do from where I stand safe above, and I cannot help but feel that I should be down with the others no matter what Loghain says. I try to focus on the soft thrum of the Dalish releasing their arrows into the fray, but it fades into the background quickly. And I do not want to listen to the cries of dwarves and elves and men dying for us below, dying just so that Loghain can guarantee the demon's death.

But in the absence of things to attract my attention, something else steals inside my ears instead—a dark and cloying song, one that I have never wanted to hear anywhere outside of my nightmares. It is almost the same as the music I heard in the Deep Roads and almost all of tonight, yet worse—purer, somehow, like the night has been distilled into a single drop of bottled ichor. My entire body freezes with the voice's wordless lullaby, and even though my spine crawls, I feel a sudden temptation to lie down where I stand and simply go to sleep listening to that voice.

A soft soprano touches my ears and brushes the Archdemon's voice to the side as easily as if it was just cobwebs hanging around my head. I rub my temple with the heel of my hand and concentrate on Leliana's voice. She is praying, I quickly realize; as much as she has changed since we killed Marjolaine, old habits die hard, I suppose, in the end. But as long as she speaks, I have something else to listen to. I glance at Loghain, and although he does not turn his head, I can tell that he is focusing on her voice, too.

The verse she recites is one of my father's favorites. "'Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,'" she whispers. "'Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood...'"

Her ragged voice wavers. "'In their blood the Maker's will is written,'" she finally says, and looks at me, noticing that I was listening. I return her gaze, but cannot seem to focus on her. There is something wet dripping down my forehead, and I swipe at it with my forearm to quell the itch. When I take my arm away, my armguard is damp, but not red with blood as I half-expected it to be.

"Save your breath," Loghain says gruffly, his eyes still locked on the fight below. He pauses, then adds, grudgingly: "There is no darkness or death in the Maker's light, bard. Do not fear your enemies."

I suppose that is his way of comforting her. Or himself.

In the silence left behind, the song returns. My vision begins to fade around the edges. I am scared to blink the blurring away, too afraid that I will find myself trapped in the sleep the voice coaxes me towards.

"Don't stop, Leliana," I whisper. My voice cracks on the third syllable of her name and I swallow, stripping the remaining bits of moisture in my mouth to soothe my throat. "Sing."

Apple-red hair bobs in the corner of my eye as she nocks another arrow on her bowstring. "What do you wish me to sing?"

"Anything you want. Just sing. Please. It helps."

"If it helps, then I shall sing for you, Daen," she says with a tired smile. And when her voice fills my ears again, the demon's fades, this time with a raspy snarl before it goes away completely. It doesn't even matter what she sings; it is the first time tonight that I have not had the Archdemon's presence buzzing in my head, it seems, and I welcome its absence with a sigh of relief. My vision clears and my body loses its tension immediately. Beside me, I sense Loghain relax as well, like Soris does when I scratch him after a hard fight. He says nothing, but I can tell that he is concentrating on Leliana just as intently as I am.

One of the Dalish archers lets out a sudden cry and turns, aiming her arrows away from the Archdemon. The others follow suite, and I run to the edge of the platform, my heart sinking at what I see below. The Archdemon's reinforcements have arrived—hurlocks, genlocks, and shrieks spill from the entrance to the roof in a swarm large enough to give the soldiers trouble and distract them from the demon. The darkspawn must have managed to get past Bann Teagan's men somehow. I hope that does not mean that Bann Teagan has fallen. But I can at least thank the Maker that the upper levels of Fort Drakon are apparently not large enough to allow an ogre through. We would all be tossed to our deaths in moments otherwise.

Kardol turns and frantically waves his arm through the air at me. I glance at Loghain. He is already looking at me, his helmet over his face, his fist on the hilt of his sword, and his shield ready before him. He looks every inch a general, and every inch a man who is prepared to die. I have no idea how I look, but I am sure that my face is as bloodless and pale as I feel. I look back at the Archdemon's reinforcements and wonder how impossible this will be.

Loghain clears his throat, the sound echoing hollowly in his helmet. "Don't do anything reckless," he reminds me.

I laugh. "Can't. No ogres. And the demon's all yours, trust me." I manage to keep my voice casual despite my heart beating as loud as thunder in my ears. Fang's hilt rests easily in my left hand, while my right flexes around Starfang. "I'll clear the spawn out for you. Just be ready."

I take off without a backward glance, although I hear Wynne cry for me to wait as I pass her by. Wynne can use her magic from a distance, anyway, and I have a darkspawn horde to take care of.

There are too many to try and take head on, so I use my size and speed to my advantage, slipping up behind individual spawn while they are busy focusing on the larger humans and dwarves and crippling them with quick blows to the unarmored portions of their bodies—usually the legs, but sometimes I manage a shot beneath a rib or under an arm, and a few times at exposed necks. Wounding them makes it easier for my allies to finish them off while I head to the next one. Most of the spawn do not even see me coming, and the ones that do are taken out by the soldiers while my target is distracted fighting me. My senses sharpen with every blow, and I know that my eyes are beginning to show the signs of the taint within me. But I am sure that I move too quickly for any of my allies to notice any strange changes in my appearance.

A flash of silver armor catches the corner of my eye, and I turn and watch Loghain tear across the roof like a wolf through sheep, bowling through a small group of hurlocks along the way as he charges towards the Archdemon. I track him with eager eyes. His armor catches the red glow of the sky above and makes him seem like his is on fire from boots to the very top of his helmeted head. A part of me cannot believe that I had faced him in a duel and won—although if I had to be honest with myself, it was mostly by sheer luck that I did. Even so, Loghain is a sight to behold in battle. It is easy to imagine why he is Ferelden's Hero.

Something grabs hold of my ankle, and I stop myself just in time before slicing the little black dog that had followed me through Fort Drakon in half. I do not know where it had disappeared to nor where it came from. It stares up at me with wide yellow eyes and tugs a few times on my boot. It is not even large enough to pull me anywhere, but even I can tell that it is trying to drag me away from the Archdemon.

I sheathe Fang and scoop the brindled scrap of fur up in my off hand and cradle it against my chest, frowning down its sharp little muzzle. It whines and licks my cheek anxiously. "What's wrong with you?" I ask. It just yips in reply and paws at my armor.

A quickly moving shadow reflected in its bright eyes makes me look up at the Archdemon just in time to see it flex its jaws and arch its back like a cat. I have never seen it make that motion in the entire duration of the fight so far, and something inside of my cries out a warning that will never leave my lips in time. Loghain slows his advance, his steps turning cautious and his shield angled defensively before him, but the shield cannot save him from what comes next. I stretch out a helpless hand as the dragon undulates its neck and spits a series of balls of purplish gas at Loghain. He raises his shield, surely by pure instinct as even he must know that a shield will do nothing against something as diffuse as gas. I am sure he holds his breath, too, because I am holding mine. I watch him stagger as the wave hits him, and watch bodies gathered around him fall left and right, darkspawn and dwarves and men and elves alike. They are alive, I can tell even from here, but stunned and weakened by whatever the Archdemon had just thrown at them. And Loghain is falling, too. And I cannot let him fall.

I drop the dog and sheathe Starfang. "Leliana!" I yell, pointing towards the Archdemon. "Shoot it!"

She does not stop singing, but her voice crescendos at my command. A single arrow with her colorful striped fletching flies and strikes the Archdemon in the side of its neck, lodging its head beneath one of the demon's twisted scale plates. It is a beautiful shot. The dragon screams and rears back, and I move, my nose buried deep in my forearm.

Loghain is still on one knee, his helmeted head nodding uselessly on his neck as he fights back against whatever is trying to drag him to the ground. I hold my breath and slip myself under his shield arm, and dig my heels in and take my first step backwards. But my Grey Warden strength can only do so much. Loghain is at least twice my weight unarmored, and his heavy plate armor does not make things easier. Whatever the Archdemon hit him with, it has done its work well. I can tell that he is straining to keep his full weight off of me, but he cannot seem to lift his legs, and it takes everything out of me just to not topple over. My chest begins to burn with a yearning for air, but I do not dare inhale as long as I can still see the last remnants of the Archdemon's breath floating around me.

A shadow three times my size looms overhead and a fist the size of my skull closes around Loghain's shoulder. Another hand reaches down and grabs me around my waist, and I blink and find myself staring down at the floor over a shoulder made of living rock. Shale turns and stomps away from the Archdemon, dragging Loghain unceremoniously behind her, and all I can do is stutter her name and wonder what she is doing here.

"We did what we could at the gates," she says without preamble. "The darkspawn almost crushed us. Although it seems to me that you were nearly squished flatter than a chicken as well. You're lucky the qunari decided to cut his losses, Warden."

She sets me down and drops Loghain, and turns and punches a hole straight through an oncoming shriek's skull. I drop to my knees, catching my breath. If the gates are lost and Shale is here—and, as I look around, so are Sten and Oghren, and what remains of the gate guard with Ser Emaline at their head—then we are at the heart of the battle for Denerim right now.

I scrub my bangs out of my eyes and hurry with the fastenings on Loghain's helmet and pull it off, holding my breath again, this time with fear at what I will find beneath. But he is intact and breathing, his skin only slightly pale and clammy to the touch. His eyes do not open, however, not even when I shake his shoulder. It is like trying to rouse a corpse. "Maker take you, Loghain!" I growl. Loghain says nothing, his head lolling on his neck through the grit and soot. And I regret my words instantly. He cannot take Loghain, not yet.

A genlock's cackle draws my attention, and I get Fang up only just in time to block the ambusher's strike at my neck. I knock the genlock back with a broad sweep of my arm and drive Fang up beneath the spawn's armpit and twist. It collapses, its jagged grin spread across its grey face, mocking me as it dies like it can sense the uneasy pit clenching tighter and tighter in my stomach. I kick it to the side and stagger to my feet. I draw Starfang again, but it is heavy in my hand, and I let its tip trace a trembling line on the stone's face below.

How could things have gone so wrong so fast? Even with Sten and Oghren and Shale, we still have the Archdemon and its forces to deal with, and I cannot imagine what is going down on the ground. While it is our luck that there are no ogres and few shrieks on the rooftop, the ranks of genlocks and hurlocks are doing more than enough to draw attention away from the demon itself. And the demon has done more than enough with Loghain already.

Loghain stirs and groans weakly at my feet. His eyes do not open, but it is a sign that I grab onto and hold close to my heart. I just need to buy some time. Just enough for Loghain to get back up again.

I sheathe Starfang and Fang and strain once more to drag Loghain to the side with my hands hooked beneath his armpits. It is a little easier with him prone, but not much, and his armor scrapes against the ground and makes a sound that makes my spine crawl along its entire length. A hurlock spots me and starts towards me, but Oghren comes barreling into its side and takes it down with a bloodthirsty shout. I grit my teeth and concentrate on getting Loghain away from the main part of the fight.

Two pairs of hands appear beside me, each grasping hold of one of Loghain's arms. Kardol grunts and digs his boots in on my left. Ser Emaline, her face lined and grim, says nothing on my right. We pull Loghain together until we can place him on the side of one of the towers. A Circle mage rushes up to us and places a glowing hand on Loghain's forehead, and I step back to let him do his work.

"Warden, your orders," Kardol says gruffly. "Do we keep at it with the Archdemon?"

"I—orders?" I echo stupidly. I know nothing of battle strategy, and I have never led armies. Kardol and Ser Emaline are both far better leaders than I ever will be. To issue orders to ones such as they—well, if only Sanga and the Pearl whores could see me now, I suppose they would just shit themselves laughing. I had always been the most obedient; they all said that that was how I kept my clients, even though all that it really kept was me alive.

No. I scrape my sweat-tangled bangs out of my eyes with my thumb, conscious of my allies' stares, but this is a moment that I need. You are Daen Tabris, Cyrion and Adaia's son, I think, and what have you been doing this past year if not leading?

Time, I remind myself. I just need time.

Out loud, I finally say: "Well, I guess we just have to take care of the darkspawn, don't we?"

"You weren't the brains between you and the other Warden, were you," Ser Emaline says dryly.

"Never claimed I was," I return evenly. "That's why we need Loghain. We'll just have to take out a few spawn and buy time until he wakes up."

"Shouldn't ye be taking out the Archdemon, lad?" Kardol asks. "Ser Loghain said ter make sure only he or another Warden struck the final blow. And, well, yer a Warden."

"With all of the darkspawn trying to get to it first?" I point at the loose circle of our own troops gathered around the Archdemon, half of them fighting off the surge of hurlocks and genlocks, the other half keeping the demon itself at bay. "Our reinforcements help, but we've got a fight ahead of us. The Archdemon isn't going anywhere. We need to make sure the spawn don't kill it before Loghain or I get a chance. Let's move."

My voice is harsher than I intend it to be, but perhaps Ser Emaline and Kardol mistake that for authority, for they jump up immediately and turn back to their own troops, barking orders as they go. I rub my throat and concentrate on breathing as I draw Starfang and Fang and choose my first target.

Fear does strange things to a man. I know that because I have been afraid all my life. But tonight it will keep me alive.

I abandon stealth in favor of hacking a path through the fresh group of spawn spilling out of the rooftop entrance, taking limbs and heads alike until I am alone at the mouth of the door. I peer down the stairway, my heart pounding, listening for the telltale stomp of more darkspawn feet climbing the tower. It is strangely silent compared to the clamor behind me. I start to back away to return to the battle.

Light blooms in the visible far recesses of the stairwell. I throw myself flat against the outside of the doorframe just in time. The fireball scorches by the side of my face as it emerges and incinerates the darkspawn I left in my wake on my way to the door. I ignore their dying screams and dare a peek through the waves of heat billowing from the stairwell, sweat dripping off of the tip of my nose.

The emissary holds its hands in rigid claws by the sides of its body as it advances step by step towards me. I grab the edge of the heavy iron door and slam it shut without thinking. It explodes into splinters in my face in the next breath, and I come to half-buried beneath rubble for the second time this night, my face raw and prickling like it is covered in needles. I doubt anyone other than a Warden would have survived being slammed to the ground by the shrapnel from the door. I am not even sure if I have.

The emissary stands directly above me, its feet stiff at either side of my body and its face twisted in a triumphant grin. It is another hurlock, but an unusually tall one, or at least it seems that way from my point of view. It stares down at me between its feet, a crooked grin spread across its rough-hewn face, and points an open hand at me, almost like it is offering to help me to stand. But there is no mistaking the heat and light that surrounds its extended hand. My face blisters in the face of it but I meet the emissary's gaze and dare it to look away.

Leliana still sings, and her voice seems to fill me with enough strength to think quickly and move even faster. I have lost Starfang and Fang in the blast, but my fingers curl around a metal piece near my thigh. I snatch it up and drive it through the spawn's thigh without thinking. It crumples to the side, shrieking, and I shove rubble off of me as fast as I can and stagger to my feet.

A circle of light surrounds the emissary's fallen body. I throw myself back to the ground immediately, covering my head with my hands. I cannot see, but I know what will happen next. The light contracts like a springtrap's jaws around the darkspawn's form. Heat rushes across my exposed fingertips as this happens, and I hear the emissary's heels kick at the ground.

It is still alive when I rise again, although barely so, its hands moving feebly at its side. I bring my boot down on its skull a few times. Each blow seems to take a little more out of me, but I cannot help but grin a little as I listen to the crunches and watch it go still at last.

"Daen!" Wynne staggers towards me, propping herself up on her staff as she goes. Two of her fellow Circle mages follow her, heaving bursts of light at any approaching darkspawn from their bare hands for cover, with Sten and Oghren bringing up the rear.

I take a step towards her. "Get back with the others," I yell. The rush of strength I had felt earlier is leaving me fast, and I am beginning to feel winded like I did after I climbed the tower stairs, just before I entered this Maker-forsaken fray. My legs give out on my next step and I fall heavily to my knees, darkness creeping back across my vision.

"Absolutely not. You need healing. No, don't black out on me!" A skinny hand smacks my cheek, and my sight clears immediately. Blighted humans need to stop hitting me, I think blearily, my face throbbing anew, before realizing that I have somehow fallen to my side, although I do not remember that happening.

Wynne's hand is on my stomach, and I try to push it away. She is shaking from exhaustion, and she needs to save her strength for someone who really needs it. Someone like Loghain. Could she revive him, I wonder?

"Don't talk," Wynne snaps before anything more than a single syllable escapes my lips. "You have a piece of door the size of your foot stuck in your stomach, did you know that?"

That explains why I feel so weak, I suppose. Her healing warmth begins to spread through me, and I grab her hand with mine and squeeze it with as much strength as I can muster as thanks.

"Oghren! Get over here."

Heavy steps stop near my ear. "What now, woman?" He pauses. "Er, how's the Warden? He doesn't look so good."

"No, he isn't. I need you to grab hold of that bit of metal right there and pull it out of him. Quickly, but as steady as you can, if you please. We don't want it doing any more damage on the way out than it already did going in. Sten, watch my back while I take care of the wound. This is going to take some concentration."

"Wynne," I whisper. Sweet Maker, I hope she doesn't need to sew anything together this time.

"Stop talking or I'll gag you. I'll have you back on your feet in no time, so just lie still." Her other hand presses against my temple and over my eyes. It feels reassuring at first, until I realize that she is pressing my head to the ground to keep me from moving it around.

"Loghain—"

She sighs. The sound of tearing cloth reaches my ears, and then her fingers push a ball of something rough and metallic-tasting into my mouth. "_Quiet_, Daen." Both of her hands press even more firmly against me, and I feel my stomach twitch, as though someone has touched something deep within it. "Do it, Oghren."

The pain is so sudden that I am too surprised to scream around the gag. Fire tears through my gut, even worse than werewolf claws raking through my skin. Something hot seems to bubble and spill out of me while my body convulses and tries to curl itself around my stomach, but all I can manage to do is draw my knees up towards my chest. Wynne shouts something and another set of hands grab my legs and stretch me flat. I struggle to free myself. I am dying, I know I am, and I need to run to see Zevran before I do, and my legs need to be free for me to do it. But the hands will not release me, although their owner yells and curses me as I fight.

A familiar warmth leaks through me again, but Wynne's healing cannot come fast enough, it seems; I pant for air and send a futile wish to Andraste for Soris's furry flank to lean against.

I blink. And suddenly I am not where I should be.

"Daen?" Alistair peers down at me. I stare up at him, my mind blank. The side of my head throbs, and when I touch my fingers to that tender point they come away bright red with blood.

"What happened?" I mumble, grabbing his proffered hand and letting him drag me upright. "Where am I? Where are the others?"

"Ahh, you did hit your head a couple times already. Guess the emissary was the last straw." Alistair leans close, staring fixedly into my eyes. "Do you know who I am?" he asks slowly, pulling out each word.

I sigh and pinch my forehead. Why does it feel like someone's hand is pressing down on it? "Alistair, what's going on?"

"And there's the little grouch I know and love!" Alistair laughs and claps my shoulder. "The emissary exploded after you stabbed it, I tried to toss you, and I think I threw you a little too hard. Are you feeling alright?"

"Hah! If by 'alright' you mean 'about to throw up,' then—" The throbbing in my head abruptly increases, and my stomach roils and heaves as I speak. I clap a fist over my mouth. "Maker. I feel like I just tried to ride a dragon."

"Good thing you don't have to worry about that anymore, then."

I lift my head slowly. "What do you mean?"

"The Archdemon's dead. Riordan killed it."

"Riordan?" I echo, and climb to my unsteady feet and look around slowly for what feels like the first time in a long while. I am back in the alienage. Home. How? Something feels wrong, but I do not know what it is. My father is nowhere in sight, although something tells me that he is somewhere among the crowd of elves that seem to simply exist behind the _vhenedhal_. I squint but cannot seem to focus on any of their faces, and rub my bleary eyes. "I...how long was I out for?"

"Well...pretty long, I'd say."

"And it's...over?" I feel like someone has just kicked the breath out of me. "Just like that?"

"Yeah." He peers at me. "You'd think you'd be happier about it. Don't tell me you're disappointed you missed the fight?"

"Not really," I say distantly. "Is Riordan..."

"He's fine. He sent word that he'll meet you and me and Loghain here once he makes it out of Fort Drakon."

Fine. And alive. Riordan is alive. I have to smile at that. I'm glad. He's a good man. I do not know why I keep seeing a body plummeting alone through smoke and fire.

"Hey, are you okay?" Alistair leans towards me, hand outstretched, brown eyes wide with worry.

Oh, Alistair. He has always had a way of looking at me, not with the sharp gaze that made me feel he was seeing right through me like Wynne and Morrigan did, but with the kind of understanding, sad eyes that made me want to confess every last worry I had in me immediately. Almost like Soris. But the last thing I need right now is that guileless stare. So I turn away from him with my forehead in my hands instead of replying, ignoring his concerned query.

There is a strange heaviness in my head and every inch of my limbs, like I am wrapped in ten layers of the thickest blankets imaginable, and each soaked through with water. One of my clients at the Pearl had thought it would be funny to put something into my drink once, and I had felt this way then, too, although I had not found out why until I woke up two days later. Sanga was furious when she found out. But she had not found out in time to stop the nightmares that happened in between.

Yes, that is what this feels like now. A nightmare. Real, but not, like I am trying to touch things while wearing a thick pair of gloves, and even worse than the Fade, where impossible things were too real to be true. But I can only half-heartedly try to convince myself that that is all this is. It still feels something like home, and I do not want to wake up—especially when I turn again to speak to Alistair and instead find myself bumping up against _him_. He appears from nowhere on his silent feet, catching my shoulders as I turn, and my hands fall away from my face while my jaw goes slack with surprise.

"Warden," he says, smiling down at me.

"Zev?" I ask. "Shouldn't you be..." My throat closes and I cannot finish. Oh, Maker, why is my head so heavy? I struggle to keep it upright so that I can look at him with every bit of longing that I feel. "I'm not supposed to be here," I manage.

"Oh?" he replies with a slow smile. "This is where you want to be, yes?"

I nod slowly.

"Then it is where you should be." He leans in to me. "Close your eyes, my Warden."

I obey. It is so easy to do. My lids feel so heavy already, and with my eyes closed, my head seems to stop hurting without an unfocused world to make it worse. And when his lips cover mine, I sigh into them and slip my hands up his back. I suppose this is all that I wanted, really.

But something is wrong, so wrong. It is him at first, and then it isn't, like there is something cold and tight beneath the surface of his skin that fights at his seams. And the longer I hold him and the more he presses against me, the more wrong it feels.

I am just imagining it. I have to be. His arms tighten around my shoulders as if he feels my unease, and his mouth drifts away to sink down my neck. He purrs something into my pulse that I do not understand, but I cannot even want to try to. I squeeze my eyes tighter and whimper as his hips arch into mine, and turn my nose into his hair.

I breathe. And smell nothing.


	20. Chapter 19 (part 2)

_This is part 2 of 2 in Chapter 19, the last chapter of the story, clocking in at 13,000+ words and therefore divided in half to try to preserve reader sanity. ...Maybe?_

* * *

CHAPTER 19  
part 2

"Zev?" I whisper. He silently pulls me even closer against him. I let him. But the clenching in my stomach is at war with the yearning ache he releases in me. It feels like I am held in an ogre's fist again, and I am almost far enough gone to not care. I want this to be real so badly, him to be real, everything—_everything—_just a dream—

I inhale again. And finally I smell something, but sweet Maker, it is not leather and musk at all, but a corpse, sulfurous with rot, and laced further with poisoned iron and blood, the way he smells only after he has killed something and never for long. And something else, something like fish, something I had never smelled on him before, never when he was this close to me. A smell I could never associate with him. It is a dead giveaway.

I gasp and shove him away and rip my heavy lids open and gasp again. I stand in the _vhenedhal _now, surrounded by green and the sharp smell of its early flowers and budding leaves. It is spring and winter at the same time, and it is all utterly impossible. I sway on an icy branch barely wide enough to hold my two feet together, and have to hold myself steady with my arms flung out by my sides. Zev stands an armslength away, his arms crossed and hands tucked beneath his elbows, balanced with a cat's grace and smiling crookedly as he watches me struggle. I give him a dizzy glance and catch Denerim in the blink of an eye behind him, a vast landscape painted in daytime colors that turn dim beneath a sky as blue as the heart of a fire. It is the Denerim I grew up with, and more.

I should feel safe here, but I do not. I know this is wrong, too. I just need to hear it. I will never believe it otherwise. "This is a dream," I blurt. "This isn't where I should be."

He chuckles and steps towards me again. "Where should you be, then? Tell me."

"Fort Drakon. With the others. Killing the—" I stumble back. I need to get away from him, but there is nowhere to go except off the side of the _vhenedhal_. I look down and sway back again immediately. There is nothing below. Nothing at all. The _vhenedhal_ should not be so large or so tall. Bile rises in my throat, but my throat feels like it has constricted until it is no wider than the head of a pin. I gag, my eyes prickling with the beginning of tears. I will not let the thing before me have the satisfaction of seeing my weakness, though, and force myself to choke it all back.

"It was a dream, Warden. Just a dream. Do you not like where we are now? Does this not please you?" He spreads his arms wide, showing me the world sweeping behind him with the span of his entire reach. "This is for you, Warden. It is ours, yours and mine." He lowers his voice. "Close your eyes."

I shake my head. Say it, you idiot, _say _it. "I don't know you," I rasp, my voice tight with a rising terror I cannot even try to fight back.

The false tenderness is gone in an instant. The creature in Zev's skin closes in on me, and suddenly his hands are tight around my wrists and the _vhenedhal_'s trunk slams into my back. It pins me there with his chest, and makes his eyes cold and flat beneath his lazy lids, and stretches his smile into something thin and cruel. I struggle in its iron grip and inhale sharply and realize suddenly that the _vhenedhal_ is not alive as it should be; it does not move beneath my feet the way a living tree should. The green smell vanishes, replaced by the odor of something dying and burning all around me. Behind the creature's hunched shoulders, the sky turns dim and streaked with soot, and fades like a creeping shadow in the corners of my vision. And the _vhenedhal_ is on fire, and I am burning with it.

I choke again as my heart pounds in my chest. Now I know I am dreaming, even more than words could say.

"Demon," I whisper. "Go away."

"But this is so clearly what you want, little elf," it purrs with his voice. _His_ voice—I do not know how it still manages to imitate that much almost perfectly. My knees shake like they are made of twigs as it leans close and touches his tongue to my lips, and then my whole body quails as it makes him linger there, sliding across every contour. It even feels cool and dry like a snake, no more substantial than a puff of air that reeks of death and corruption.

When it speaks again, it uses the same throaty purr he always falls back upon when he is trying to lure me into his tent. That voice has never failed to get Zev what he wanted from me. I could never help myself. I suppose the demon would know that. "Give us the world and we will give this lovely dream to you. You could stay here forever, happy with him. Just let us be."

I could. It would be easy.

But I will never forgive this creature for using Zev like this.

And I promised him. Blessed Andraste and the Maker, I promised.

I feign meekness, looking up beneath lowered lids. "Why would I stay here with you when I have him waiting for me?"

It curls his lips into a smirk that is almost like the ones Zev gives when he is hiding something from me. "You cannot lie to me, little elf. I have watched your dreams for the past year. I know what you want. I know what you are afraid of."

"You do?"

"Yes, little elf." The demon releases one of my wrists to lazily stroke his finger down my throat. My freed hand drops heavily to my side. "You know he will never truly be yours. He is a creature who hungers for freedom. He will not change so easily just for you. Why risk losing him and suffering such heartbreak when I can give you everything you yearn from him, and more?"

My skin crawls as it drags his thumb down the lines of my jugular and brings it to a rest on my clavicle. It cannot even get the pressure of his hand right.

It lowers his voice to a sibilant whisper. "What other options do you have? Stay with me and have him, or leave and die for a country that never wanted you. I offer you a choice, you see."

"A choice," I echo. I concentrate and force my hand to slip up the back of its neck, keeping my touch light like I would if it really was him before me. Like I want it to be.

It carves his lips into a snake's grin.

"Well, I choose _him_," I snarl. "So you can save your breath and_ get out of my head_."

I tighten my grasp on the hair at the back of its head and bash my forehead into its nose with as much force as I can muster over the short distance between us. It staggers back, grabbing at Zev's face. I stay molded against the _vhenedhal_, holding my wrist against my chest, and watch bronze skin and wheat hair begin to peel and fall away from the demon that had been wearing my Antivan's face like a coward. I stare down at it, immobile with pity and disgust, and it glares back up at me on its knees, its gaze a poisonous shade of green. One eye still holds a gleam of gold, but it is framed by a mask of scales darker than a nightmare and raised and rough like bark on an infected tree.

"I will destroy you, Warden," it snarls.

Thank Andraste that even the voice has fallen to the wayside. Hearing the demon's true voice wakes me from the thrall of being trapped by Zev's. I stand straight on my own as my head clears immediately. "Try," I reply. "I've survived worse."

The demon rises, shrieking, shedding the remaining scraps of its disguise in a burst of bronze and gold. My stomach lurches when I glimpse what lies beneath. A twisted black claw reaches for me, and I turn and jump. I do not know what awaits me beneath the _vhenedhal_ other than a fire that is not real. But I have no other choice.

With a jolt, I find myself staring at a glowering sky once again, Wynne's blurred face only a few feet away from mine. The gag is gone, but I can still taste it lingering on my tongue. "You left Zevran at the gates, remember?" she says dryly. I blink hazily before realizing that I must have said his name out loud while the demon was inside me.

I shiver. Suddenly, I cannot remember what it feels like to be warm.

Wynne coughs softly, as if trying to catch her breath while it leaks from her faster than she can hold it, and takes her hands away from me. "Sweet Maker, that took a bit out of me. But I knew you would try something stupid eventually. I couldn't heal you quite as thoroughly as I'd like, but it should keep you for now. Just try not to get in the way of any more exploding doors. Can you stand?"

I nod, my hand curling around my stomach. Nearby, Oghren snorts and drops a chunk of metal to the ground, one of its jagged ends covered in a generous coat of blood. A hand reaches for me and I take it and rise, and nod my thanks to Sten. There is a little ball of fur and skin tucked into the crook of his other arm, and I discover with a start that it is the little black dog nestled there, its yellow eyes fixed steadily on me. Its slender muzzle is covered with blood, but it looks unharmed. It is hardly larger than Sten's closed fist and I cannot help but wonder if he picked it up or if it went to him.

I start to laugh, but have to stop when my armor digs warningly into my newly healed flesh. It is hard to breathe, so I unbuckle myself and let my armor fall to my feet. There is a gaping hole in its side, lips pursed inward to where it would have rested against my stomach, and it looks almost like someone had just put their foot straight through. I will have to take my armor back to Wade after this if I want it repaired. My undershirt is soaked in blood and the fresh hole in it has likely rendered it beyond even Wade's skill. My newly healed wound pulses half-raw beneath that, but at least it is closed. I cannot imagine how the rest of me would have looked right now if I had been wearing anything less than dragonskin. And if Wynne had not saved me.

Wynne, meanwhile, remains crouched and bent over. I touch her back hesitantly. "How are you feeling?" I say softly.

"Tired. And a little old, perhaps." Wynne lifts her head and meets my eyes. "Almost all of the mages are out of lyrium. I'm not sure how much longer we have."

"It'll be over soon," I say without thinking. I glance over my shoulder to where I left Loghain. Leliana is by his side, still singing. And Loghain's head begins to move, like a man waking from slumber. My heart leaps. "It'll be over soon," I repeat more confidently, more for myself than for Wynne. "Hang in there, Wynne."

She drops her head to her chest in a tired nod. I spot Starfang nearby, gleaming beneath broken pieces of metal, and stride forward. Now it seems to leap into my hand, fitting there almost as well as Fang does, and that is just as well, because I cannot find Fang anywhere. I will have to search for it afterwards. For now, I heft Starfang and rest its flat side on my shoulder. I must be careful, now that I do not have any armor. But that just means that I can move faster, and if I move faster, then it _will_ all be over soon. I cannot wait to awaken to amber eyes, waiting for me to return below like I know they are.

I turn on my heel, my strength returning.

The Archdemon rises on its haunches, howling at the glowering sky, wings spread wide like it is on the verge of flying. What happened while Wynne healed me? I watch the dragon's twisted scales flex and buck dwarves off of its flanks and swipe two mercenaries over the edge of the tower. It is like it has suddenly regained whatever strength we have spent the past few hours cutting away from it. Maker knows where that came from.

The dragon tilts its head and deliberately meets my gaze, and a soft rumble that is more laughter than growl rolls through my head.

I swallow and turn to Sten. "Get Wynne somewhere safe," I say. Somehow my voice does not tremble. Maker's little miracles.

Sten nods curtly. He lets his arm fall, and the little dog drops nimbly to the ground and bounds away without a backward glance. "Do not worry for the old one, _kadan_. Do what you must."

He lifts Wynne in his arms like she is made of nothing but paper and twine. And she casts one last look at me before she goes, her eyes sunken into her face and her wrinkles etched deeper than I have ever seen them. "Daen," she whispers, before her eyes roll back and her head lolls forward on her neck.

I cannot stop and wonder if she lives just yet. I have to believe that she does, that Andraste truly does walk beside all of us tonight as Shianni said. The residual warmth in my side from Wynne's healing seems to grow stronger for just a moment, as if it answers my thoughts, and although I cannot help flinching when I touch Wynne's handiwork again, the warmth alone seems enough of an armor for me.

I am not so stupid to believe that it will replace my real armor, though. I will have to be careful from here on out.

"Let's dance, Oghren," I say.

He grunts. "What did yer dad teach ye 'bout courtin'? At least buy a man a drink 'fore askin' 'im something like that."

Oghren will never change. I grin. "How about a round on me after this?"

His eyes brighten. "Well, now yer talkin'! But I'm leadin', Warden."

I follow Oghren's stocky form with a few quick strides and save a shaking mercenary from a close call with a genlock's axe. When I turn, I take out a line of hurlock archers before they can bombard the Dalish along the parapets. I turn again and lunge forward, shoving Starfang straight through a shriek's open mouth. When I look up, I am back-to-back with Oghren, Kardol, Ser Emaline, and Eamon, and although I am barely taller than the dwarves, I use my speed to make up for Eamon's waning strength while Oghren and Kardol break knees and thighs and Ser Emaline takes heads off with broad sweeps of her sword. We move together in a tight unit, darkspawn falling in our path. My heart lightens with every corpse I slide off of Starfang's point. I have only taken a few blows to my sides and there is an open gash on my thigh, and we are doing well and my renewed energy has yet to flag. I meet Ser Emaline's alert eyes and grin. We can finish this.

"Warden!"

I turn at Oghren's hoarse voice, a tired retort on the tip of my tongue. He just points.

The Archdemon pants, thick drops of dark ichor falling from its gaping mouth. Around its feet, the cluster of mercenaries and dwarves and the elves that have joined them back away. The dragon's lids droop as heavily as the rest of its body, and its head slumps forward on its sinuous neck, the tip of its slender snout touching the ground. A fresh barrage of Dalish arrows fly and the dragon screams and pitches forward, its massive skull slamming into the rooftop with enough force to shake the foundations below. It lets out a gurgling cry. It sounds like any other animal on the verge of death.

My feet are rooted in place. I can barely breathe. It is too soon. Where is Loghain? I start to turn, raking the crowd around me for his sour face.

Eamon whirls. "What are you waiting for, Warden?" he roars. "End it! End it now!"

His ragged command is not what makes me move. I see a hurlock break past a soldier and hurtle towards the fallen Archdemon, a longsword in its hands. And all I can think as my feet carry me forward is that if I want the nightmares to end, I cannot let it win.

A tiny black thing flies into the hurlock's face, growling and snapping at its nose. The hurlock falters, clawing at the little black dog, who has sunk its sharp teeth into the hurlock's cheek and refuses to let go. I cut the hurlock's hand away from its body at the wrist as soon as I am close enough and dodge the sword as it falls with a heavy thump to the ground, and then take the hurlock's head straight off of its neck on my upswing. The creature topples to the ground and the little black dog bounds away, disappearing from sight yet again. And because I am so close to the Archdemon already, right next to its heaving sides, I grab hold of its twisted protrusions and begin to climb.

It is not until my boots are balanced along the Archdemon's jaws that I realize what I am doing.

The dragon rouses beneath my feet, rolling its neck weakly to the side. I keep my footing until I find myself staring down into its half-lidded eye. It is larger than both of my feet put together, and it stares back up at me, dazed. The Archdemon has pretty eyes, I find myself thinking absently, watching my face reflected in its pained depths. The clouded orb I stare at is green like the _vhenedhal_'s leaves beneath the corruption on the surface, and reflects the sky as clearly as the distant reaches of the ocean on a windless day. I see myself inside and I look as scared and disheveled as I feel. I hear no words, but I sense the voice and know what the Archdemon is trying to convince me of. Let us be, it whispers. We only want to live. Just like me.

I could. It would be so easy.

I promised Zev, didn't I?

Oghren roars somewhere behind me and Leliana is not singing any more, just screaming something in a desperate, breathless voice. I cannot understand her and try to reply, but my breath rasps soundless on my tongue.

There is a weight like a giant hand pressed against my chest. It keeps my lungs from drawing as much air into me as I need. I stare up at the sky to try to relieve the tightness, gasping like a drowning man. Its belly is painted with smears of red and orange, reflecting the fire it crouches over like some unfathomably huge creature warming itself over Denerim's pyre and crushing me against Fort Drakon and the demon stirring below. It seems like it has come to me tonight, keeping my feet pinned to the ground. I have never felt more certain that I could actually touch the sky if I tried as I do right now.

It is a familiar feeling, the looming pressure. But the bad memories I have always associated with that sensation feel a lifetime away from me now. It is Zev's chest above mine that I recall instead, his lips and his tongue touching me in that gentle way only he ever has. I summon memories of his lazy eyes and half smile and low purr that always held me entranced just long enough for his hands to catch me tight between them. I never could run from him, no matter what he might have thought. My heart turns into dead weight in my chest, as heavy as Starfang in my hands and a golden earring clasped to my lobe. Yes, I promised. At least I can keep that one promise in the end, just the one, even if he will never know.

And now I have to laugh. I cannot help it. Because I'm not scared, Zev. I'm not. I know fear well enough to know that I am not afraid, not really, not of this. I tower over all of Denerim. No city elf has climbed as high as I have tonight.

I stare down at the green eye between my feet. "You shouldn't have tried to use him like that," I say, and raise Starfang high over my head. I slam its blue-lit length through eye and bone until it bites into something even deeper and can go no further.

And all I see in the next moment is light. It is blinding white and it robs me of the entire world. My heart lurches and I cannot breathe. Something scrapes across my cheek like Soris's tongue, but rougher and far more uncaring. Someone screams, and something else entirely roars in impotent rage in my head. And ice settles coils of steel around my soul, gnawing deep like a springtrap's teeth.

The burst of light still stains my vision. I cannot even tell if my eyes are open. They burn even fiercer than the side of my face and the back of my head, as if someone holds a brand to them. Every breath hurts even worse than when the ogre squeezed me; every slightest move causes the flames the spring anew. It is all that I can feel, as though I am made up of nothing else but a head and a set of lungs, but it is bad enough. I do not know how long I will be able to stand the pain.

_Not for much longer,_ a rough voice answers. It is not a corruption of Zev's honeyed tones this time. No, now it is the same voice that I have heard sing to me in my dreams, and I try to fool myself into believing that this, too, is just a dream. But the pain is too much to be anything but real.

_Foolish little elf. We will die together._

A familiar voice gasps above me, and I feel a hand touch my face. I turn my head towards the sound—I cannot move anything else. My heart leaps weakly. I try to say his name but catch myself. It cannot be him, anyway. The fingers are cool and dry like twigs, and bare of leather. And the voice is too high.

"Wynne?" I say, and do not recognize my own voice. It sounds like an abomination's. Twisted with the darkness of the demon within me, I suppose.

"You blighted _fool_," she whispers in response. She sounds so tired. But still angry, like she always is when I have gotten myself hurt doing something stupid.

"Guess...should have worn helmet...huh?" I reply. Maker, my voice sounds terrible.

"Joking at a time like this? Maker's breath."

My laugh is a rasp dragging on stone and sounds like it is filled with blood. It hurts. I stop quickly.

"Wait for me, Daen," she murmurs, her voice strangely even. "I can heal it all; I just need a bit more lyrium first. The other Circle mages will have some still. They'll be here soon. Just wait. My magic won't work on a corpse. And you know how I feel about blood magic."

I would have laughed again if I did not feel the demon leap to life within me at her words. _Yes,_ it hisses eagerly. _Fix it all. Let me live again. Don't you want it, too? We will live together, forever. No one will be able to stop us. We will restore your people to their rightful place over humans, together, with your assassin at our side._

I push the angry, bitter thing that is the Archdemon's soul entwined about mine away. Its clamoring voice will soon be extinguished by my own mortality. I need only wait for the end. An easy enough thing to do, when I am on the verge of sleep already.

But a part of me does not want it. I am not ready. Maker, I am so tired—but I do not want to lie down yet, even though I know that I must.

I just...can't.

But I suppose it would be too much to hope to see him one last time.

Warmth begins to penetrate the web of pain stretched across my eyes. As much as I welcome its touch, even I can sense the weak and faltering way Wynne forces it out of her. She is exhausted and her strength by all rights should be gone, but she tries anyway. Oh, Wynne. I have to stop her before she tries something else. "Don't," I croak. "Please. Promise."

The warmth dies away. "Why?"

I do not reply. Why, indeed?

"Why?" she insists. "You are so proud of how you survive everything. Survive this, then. Don't give up. Think about your family. Blessed Andraste, think about that idiot Zevran. Think about everything that will happen after the Blight is over, when you emerge from Fort Drakon, the savior of all of Thedas. You are young. You have so much to live for. Don't you want to see it yourself? Why would you give that up?" By the end of her demands, her voice has lost its steadiness and turned frantic, as if she can feel me slipping away beneath her fingers.

Maybe she can. It is getting colder. I would shiver if I could.

I wonder if I really am smiling the way I think I am, or weeping the way I so desperately want to. I cannot feel the muscles in my face anymore. After spending almost our entire time together lecturing me about duty and warning me against the follies of youth and anything that might bind me beyond what must be done as a Grey Warden, she now has the temerity to urge me to hang on to those same things. I know she is just trying to keep me focused and conscious, and oh, how tempting it is to listen to her. Crazy old bat. Our lovely Wynne.

But Wynne does not know about the Archdemon. It needs me to live, Wynne. That's why.

If only I could explain it all in the fading time that I have. Zev is all that is on my mind now. But I cannot summon the words that I need him to hear to my lips. For once, I do not know what to say. Why?

_It will take but a few moments,_ the voice whispers with renewed vigor. Its tones turn seductive in the next breath. _Just a few more moments of life, and you can speak those words to him yourself and have no more regrets. Why deny what your heart desires?_

"You know why," I mumble. "Duty...and..."

My jaw stiffens as I speak, until I feel as though I am trying to move a puppet's wooden mandible. I wish I could see Wynne, so that I could look into her eyes before I go and with them tell her, somehow, that this is not her fault.

And I wish I could see him again.

"And..."

"Daen?" Wynne says. Her voice reaches me through a tunnel. I am not there any more.

Dark. Why is it so dark? The world is nothing about me, the bonfire whose heart Fort Drakon burned within gone without even a memory in the wake of its passing. It is not cold so much as there simply is no heat at all. There is nothing to feel, not even when I try to rub my arms, save for a pit of ice in my chest that feels like it should not be a part of me.

_Hello, Warden._

The voice that fills my head is a dark chant mixed with pure song. "Demon," I say.

_Yes. And now you and I are bound together in Oblivion. A pity, isn't it? If you had accepted my offer, you could be with your assassin right now, warm and happy. I could have given you everything you could have ever wanted in your entire mortal life, and even more. Instead, I shall enjoy your company for the rest of eternity._

I laugh. I am too tired to care. "And I shall enjoy yours, demon."

_And how do you find Oblivion, little elf? Is it to your liking?_

"Could use a few homey touches."

It chuckles. I ignore it. I have more to consider before I can bring myself to deal with an eternity of having a demon for my only companion.

After all that I have been through, it is Oblivion for me in the end. I do not know what road I walked on to turn the Maker's gaze from me. Ah, but Riordan did say that killing the Archdemon would destroy both of us completely. I had assumed that meant it would be worse than Oblivion, but I suppose Oblivion is better than nothing at all. Perhaps this means that I will maybe find Zev here one day, too—unless Zev was right, and the Maker does not exist, and nothing waits after death except something much like the Fade.

But no. He could not have been right about that. If this was the afterlife he believed in, more dream than death, I would not be here alone with a demon inside of me. I am in Oblivion. I have to be. And I will wait for him for as long as I must. I promised, after all.

_You are a most interesting little elf._

"I'm glad you think so."

_What will you do if this is not Oblivion? Will you wait here for your Antivan forever still?_

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see who's right," I say distantly. "I have all the time in the world, now."

_You know not of what you speak, elf. I do. But you will learn. What shall we do while we wait?_

"I don't know. How about you tell me what you really are, demon?"

_You call me a demon. That must be what I am. I woke one day in light and warmth, and then woke again in nothing. I yearn only for the warmth; five times have I felt it since it left, and five times has it been taken from me by confusing things that were both children and like me at the same time—beings much like you, little elf. You are cruel children, to deny me the warmth no matter how I plead and strive. But at least for now I am not alone._

"You're the same Archdemon from the last Blights?" I ask. "Is the Chant true, then? Are you one of the Maker's first children?"

_The Chant is a nursery rhyme. I know not what I am, except what you call me. I am a demon. That is what I am._

"It seems a little sad, not knowing what you are."

_Perhaps_, the demon says, but does not offer anything more.

"You don't seem as angry now as you were before."

_Angry?_

"When you tried to convince me not to kill you."

_I do not know if that was anger. I felt things then that I do not feel now. Your world is a strange and confusing one, but tempting like nothing else. To live in that world—ah, we only wanted to taste the things that we had tasted before, feel the things that were taken from us just one more time. Just like you._

"I'm not like you." I say this without any rancor. I know I am nothing like the demon, and anyway, it seems stupid to hold a grudge now. "When you tried to...distract me. What were you trying to do?"

The demon pauses. _We were about to die. I needed a body. A willing one. But I can only live in one that is tainted, and, while darkspawn would have held me, their minds are...wanting. Either you or the other Warden on the Tower would have satisfied me. The other, though...he had little more in him to taste. A dry, bitter desert compared to you. You are young, and strong. And warm, so warm. I wanted you. I wanted to... But it is not important._

"You said you wanted to live," I say. "To feel?"

_I...do not remember anymore. But it is useless to explain it to you now. Wait a little. Then you will understand._

"Hah. That's fine, I guess," I say. I wonder if I should ask more, but my curiosity is slipping away from me. It is not that I do not want to know; it is just that the more time passes, the less I feel like talking. My mind seems to hover on the verge of sleep, although a part of me knows that it will never reach it.

I will be here for a while anyway, I think, and there will be time to ask more later. Much later.

I am not quite sure why I am here anymore, although I know that I must stay put. Nor do I know how much time passes before I notice a strange spark of light growing around me. Warmth touches me with the light, reviving a body that I had forgotten about completely. I can even feel my muscles tensing in surprise. "Demon?" I venture. "What's going on?"

The voice is strangely quiet when it replies. _This is not for me, Warden. A pity. It will be...so lonely._

"Demon?" I say cautiously, but the song is gone, and along with it the strange lump of cold that had nestled within my heart.

The heat grows, reaching up through me from my feet to the top of my head. With its rise arrives color—beautiful tongues of orange and yellow and red, flickering higher and higher until they wash above me. My feet bathe in a spot of blue so brilliant that my eyes water looking at it, and I look upward to watch the world turn into a sunset all around me.

As quick as they appear, the colors fade away, melting into plumes of grey swirled in white smoke that dance about me like my cousins around the _vhenedhal_. I even seem to see their shadows in the mist. I scrub my eyes and when I take my fists away, my mother stands before me, dark and beautiful and the strength of the world in her proud shoulders. My mouth gapes wordless. I had forgotten how beautiful she was. Her black eyes meet mine while her hand reaches towards me.

"It's time to go home, Daen," she says.

I take a faltering step away from her, my hands clutched like a child's behind my back, staring down at my toes and shaking my head so hard it is a wonder my neck does not break. "I can't," I whisper. "Not yet. I'm sorry."

"What are you waiting for?" she asks, her voice gentle and warm.

I start to reply, but I cannot finish my thought. "I don't remember," I say slowly. "Someone golden and beautiful. Someone important. I promised I would wait."

"I know, Daen." Her hand touches the top of my head, sweeping my bangs away from my forehead the way she would after she pulled my thin blankets up under my chin on a cold night. "You're so much like me. I'm proud of you. You did well. And I love you. Just remember, my boy, that there is always a choice."

Her hand falls away and when I dare to look up again, she is gone. I am alone once again in a sea of grey clouds that give way to white. They are the clouds one sees in the dead of winter after a blizzard has passed through, as white as the snow they float above. And they are all rising, moving upwards around me, thick as a deep sleep.

I do not know if I should be going with them until I see another hand extend through the clouds of white. It is Her this time, I know it somehow, and this time I cannot stop myself from taking it in my own. But I balk when I feel Her pull me onward. How can I say no to Her, of all people? But there is no other answer. "I can't," I stammer. "I have to wait. I'm waiting. I can't..."

The owner of the hand pauses and steps forward, and my words die and I nearly weep at seeing him before me. Andraste has his face and everything it encompasses, from the lazy amber eyes to the tattoos curving along his left temple, to the half smile and sculpted jaw and slightly hooked nose, and the immaculately arranged shine of golden wheat hair falling around it all. It feels like I haven't seen him in a lifetime. How could I have forgotten this so easily? I look down at his bare hands in mine, bronze encircling ivory, and notice for the first time that my own hands are as bare and clean as a newborn's. Even the scars around my wrist are gone.

"Come home, Daen," he says. The corners of his mouth quirk upwards. "_Amora_." I sob out loud at that and throw my arms around him. And it is him, all him. The chest is as I remember; the hands catch me at the small of my back as they always have. My own hands slips up to rest between his shoulderblades in the exact same place they have always belonged. When I turn my nose into his neck, I smell nothing but him—no leather or herbs to mask the scent, just his deep musk that fills my head and makes me want to stay molded against him forever.

It could be a demon. It could be _the_ demon. I look back up into his eyes and cannot deny the possibility, even though this golden creature returns my gaze with the same quiet amusement that has always lit the back of his eyes. He is too bright to be real, too real to be anything but. And so painfully, completely, exactly what I wanted to see.

"Is it really you?" I finally ask, taking a reluctant step back.

"It is," he says. "A part of me, at least. The part that has always been here."

"But I..." I falter.

"Do not worry for me when I cross the Veil after you, _amora_. There will always be a part of you here for me when it is my time as well."

He makes no sense, and I start to tell him so. But then he smiles. I bite my own tongue. I just do not care.

Maker, I'm so tired. But whether Andraste or the Maker, a demon in the Fade or just a fanciful wish of my own, he is everything that I know I was waiting for. I would follow that smile anywhere.

"I'm so tired," I whisper. "Just tell me if he'll be all right."

He tilts his head to the side. In the space of a breath, I see something warm and sad flicker within the amber depths of his eyes. It is gone so quickly that I cannot even wonder what it was. "He will be all right."

"But how do you know?"

"Sometimes, _amora_, you can know things without truly knowing. That is how we have always been, you and me, yes?"

He frames my face with his fingers and smiles again. He is urging me on—not down, back to the broken body I have left in Wynne's care, but up. Through the clouds.

It could be just a dream. But I want to go home. And there it stands before me.

When I close my eyes, his lips brush the tops of my cheekbones, kissing tears I had not realized I had shed away. This is real, as real as anything I have ever wished for in my entire life. I reach up and catch his hands in mine and clasp them tight against me. "Yes," I say. "Let's go home, Zev."

I know this moment will last forever.

* * *

Draw your last breath, my friends,  
Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.  
Rest at the Maker's right hand,  
And be Forgiven.  
_—_Canticle of Trials 1:16

_Endnotes:_

_Thank you for reading_ Climbing on Clouds. _It was quite a ride for me and I hope you enjoyed it, too. I'm sorry about how long the last chapter took. I spent a lot of time in Daen's head over the past few months and he's definitely a hard character to let go of. He taught me a lot about persevering, in many ways. Anyway, you could read the epilogue to _Beak of the Crow_ if you haven't yet. It's about Zevran and Leliana meeting again in Kirkwall during Act 3 in DA:2._

_I am so grateful for feedback and reviews, but __**please be careful with spoilers **__if you are kind enough to leave any!_

_Daen and Zevran's stories encompass a lot of firsts for me (first NaNoWriMo, Romance, fanfics in a decade...first completed multi-chapter fanfics ever? Whoa). I think the next step is cleaning them up to go on AO3. As far as NaNoWriMo goes, I'm happy to report that although both _Clouds _and_ Beak_ were not at 100% completion by the end of November 2012, I did have at least 70K words written between the two—which is success in my book! I'm trying to work on a DA:2 fanfic now, although it's hard to shift gears. And work is definitely more important at the moment. Who knows, maybe it just means I'll be back again in another ten years._

_Special thanks and lots of love to Bioware and the Dragon Age writers, animators, programmers, and staff; EA; and the DA Wiki contributors._

_Super special thanks to everyone who favorited, followed, and/or reviewed while I was writing and publishing chapters. Every single one was so encouraging! Reviewers in particular—_Denfree, CielShadow17, fanficfan, anestezja, hellodreamer, Adralide, TheSecretSpot, MaussHauss, Tobyk947, Rydia Asuka, starinshadows, _mysterious _Guest(s?)_—thank you especially, so, so much. You are all far too kind and your words really touched me. Sometimes I kept the reviews window open just to read what you wrote while I wrote hahaha (awkward)! All of the fanfictions in the world and you walked into Daen's...and I really, really count myself lucky for it. _Cielshadow17_, especially, thank you so much for commenting so consistently on both stories._

_See you around!_

_-K_


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